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[See  page   124 


LIVERY     HORSES     ARE     HIGH     LIFED  " 


PA  FLICKINGER'S 
FOLKS 


BESSIE    R.   HOOVER 


ILLUSTRATED 

2.  /  £>  3  O 


"  God  must  fixe  common  people, 
or  Ife  would  not  have  made  so  many 
of  them."— ABRAHAM  LINCOLN. 


NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

MCMIX 


Copyright,  1909,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

All  rights  reserved. 
Published  September,  1909. 


,5  \5 


TO 
MY   MOTHER 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  OPAL  AND  THE  PARADE i 

II.  OPAL'S  HALF-HOLIDAY 27 

III.  No    MERRY-Go-ROUNDIN'  .       .       .     • 46 

IV.  BILL'S  BUDZBANOWSKY 75 

V.  COUSIN  MOSELY'S  MONEY 94 

VI.  Mis'   Hi  LUNDY'S  PRESENT 113 

VII.  BUTCH  FANNER'S  GOLD-MINE 136 

VIII.  JED,  THE  GENTLEMAN  FARMER 154 

IX.  A  SURE-ENOUGH  SANTY 173 

X.  GRANDPAW  PEEBLES 202 

XI.  THE  SOCIAL  WHIRL 223 

XII.  OPAL'S  CHANCE 247 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"LIVERY  HORSES  ARE  HIGH  LIFED"     ....      Frontispiece 

BUTCH  PUSHED  WITH  THE  ZEAL  OF  A  GALLEY-SLAVE       Page         23 
"OPAL'S    DROWNED    IN    THE    LAKE!"    CRIED    JULE, 

WILDLY Facing  p.    34 

DRAWING     SOPHIE'S    ARM    THROUGH     HIS,    BILL 

MARCHED  TRIUMPHANTLY  AWAY     .     .     .     .  "  80 

"AND  HE  PASSED  AWAY  PEACEFUL  AT  9  A.M."     .  "  96 

"l   ALWAYS   KEPT  IT  HERE" "  152 

"  I'VE  GOT  THE  '  SMILE  THAT  WON'T  COME  OFF'"      .        Page      165 

"AIN'T  THERE  NO  SANTA  CLAUS — NOWHERE?"  .  Facingp.  174 

HE   FISHED   INDUSTRIOUSLY Page      211 

"OPAL,  YOU'RE  GETTIN"  SPUNKIER'N  TUNKET!"  Facing*..  254 


This  volume  offers  for  the  first  time  the  continu 
ous  story  of  "Pa  Flickinger's  Folks."  Individual 
portraits  have  appeared  in  Harper's  Magazine, 
Everybody's  and  The  Ladies'  World,  and  are  includ 
ed  in  this  volume  with  the  approval  of  the  editors. 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 


PA  FLICKINGER'S  FOLKS 


OPAL    AND    THE     PARADE 

2-  /  b  3  O 

THREE  dirty  yellow  tenement  houses,  with 
dingy  white   trimmings  like   soiled  linen, 
thrust  their  peaked  gables  toward  the  street 
on  Loretta  Avenue,  in  the  suburbs.     They  were 
all  built  on  the  same  plan — long,  narrow,  story- 
•>J  and-a-half  houses,  with  each  main  entrance  open 
ing  upon  a  side  porch.     It  could  be  seen  at  a 
glance  that  they  were  made  to  rent. 

Ma  and  Pa  Flickinger,  two  sons,  Bill  and  Jed, 
who  worked  with  their  father  in  a  factory,  and 
a  ten-year-old  daughter,  Opal,  lived  in  the  middle 
house.  Opal's  married  sister  Elvie  occupied  the 
building  north  of  them,  and  Elvie's  baby,  Beulah, 
was  one  of  Opal's  charges.  On  the  south  side 
lived  Mandy,  another  married  sister,  whose  hus- 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

band  had  gone  to  the  Klondike,  and  whose  little 
son,  Clarence  Augustus,  nicknamed  Butch,  as 
sisted  Opal  in  baby-tending  at  such  times  as  he 
could  be  pressed  into  the  service.  So  the  families 
in  the  three  dirty  yellow  tenement  houses  were 
really  one  family. 

Farther  down  the  street,  in  an  equally  de 
pressing  row  of  rented  houses,  lived  Julia  Peebles, 
informally  known  to  her  small  world  as  Jule, 
also  a  married  sister  of  Opal's.  Jule  was  the 
mother  of  twins,  Janice  and  Jasper,  lusty  babies, 
as  yet  too  young  to  express  their  deep  repugnance 
to  their  names  except  by  their  vociferous  wail- 
ings. 

There  was  a  small  back  yard  held  in  common 
by  the  three  families,  and  a  remark  made  at  one 
kitchen  door  could  be  heard  distinctly  at  the 
other  two  doors,  which  allowed  of  much  promis 
cuous  conversation.  It  was  here  that  the  short 
comings  of  the  grocer  and  the  milkman  were 
openly  discussed,  and  the  provoking  qualities 
of  their  own  ' ' men  folks ' '  were  freely  aired.  But 
these  absorbing  topics  were  often  interspersed 
with  high-pitched  scraps  of  admonition  to  Opal, 
encouraging  her  to  keep  on  running  back  and 
forth  with  the  twins  in  the  cart  as  long  as  they 
seemed  to  like  it;  or  to  stop  jouncing  Beulah  in 


OPAL    AND    THE    PARADE 

the  cab,  as  the  young  one  wasn't  in  need  of 
churning;  and  to  keep  the  babies  out  of  the  dirt, 
for  one  clean  dress  that  week  was  all  they  were 
going  to  get.  And  the  children  were  shrilly 
warned  to  stay  out  of  the  road  if  they  wanted  to 
keep  their  brains  in  their  heads  where  they  be 
longed,  because  nobody  in  an  automobile  cared 
whether  they  killed  you  or  only  half  killed  you. 
And  Ma  Flickinger  often  called  to  Butch,  who 
was  bursting  with  uncouth  sounds,  and  rude, 
indecorous  scamperings,  like  a  clumsy  puppy,  to 
stop  yelling  like  a  wild  Indian  or  the  Black  Man 
would  get  him.  And  the  Black  Man,  as  every 
body  knew,  lived  in  Old  Man  Snather's  hedge; 
Ma  Flickinger,  who  was  an  authority  on  such  dis 
reputable  characters,  had  seen  him  there  herself. 
The  small  front  lawns  were  also  held  in  com 
mon,  with  a  hydrant  in  a  ring  of  brilliant  green 
grass  before  the  middle  house  where  Ma  lived, 
making  it  convenient  for  the  three  families. 
This  hydrant  was  a  sort  of  sacred  fount  where 
all  the  children  in  the  neighborhood  foregath 
ered;  it  was  a  Mecca,  after  the  vicissitudes  of 
"Follow  your  leader,"  or  of  "Run,  sheep, 
run!"  for  sore  and  wounded  feet,  which  were 
gently  laved  in  its  cooling  waters.  Here  the 
babies  got  hasty  shampoos,  after  stolen  dissipa- 

3 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

tions  in  sand  throwing,  from  Opal,  assisted  un 
willingly  by  Butch.     Here  chubby  hands  and 
murky  gowns  were  divested  of  telltale  stains  of 
the  forbidden  fruit  and  candy  that  Opal  had- 
shared  with  them  in  secret. 

The  women  folks  stopped  at  the  hydrant  to 
pass  the  time  of  day,  when  they  were  not  pass 
ing  it  in  the  back  yard;  and  the  men  washed 
their  hands  and  faces  there  morning  and  night, 
if  the  weather  permitted,  and  exchanged  husky 
notes  about  the  factory  where  they  worked,  or 
some  strike  in  a  distant  city,  whose  garbled  de 
tails  had  drifted  circuitously  into  their  con 
sciousness,  or  the  amazing  loss  of  life  in  the 
eastern  war,  "where  the  blamed  fools  didn't 
know  enough  to  stop  scrappin'  when  they  was 
through  " — this  from  Pa  Flickinger,  who  was  the 
oracle  of  the  family. 

A  cement  walk  lay  in  front  of  the  lawns, 
making  the  best  possible  thoroughfare  for  iron- 
wheeled  express  -  wagons,  and  especially  pat 
ronized  by  Butch.  It  was  also  a  fashionable 
promenade,  where  Opal,  while  pushing  Beulah 
or  the  twins,  Janice  and  Jasper,  could  meet 
other  little  girls,  similarly  encumbered,  and 
stop  occasionally  for  matronly  chats. 

Opal,  who  was  as  pale  as  her  name  signified, 
4 


OPAL    AND    THE    PARADE 

except  when  browned  by  tan,  seemed  always 
to  be  dressed  in  faded  blue  calico,  without  a 
collar,  barefooted  in  season,  her  stubby  pigtail 
tied  with  a  shoe-string  braided  in.  She  prob 
ably  took  more  steps  in  a  day,  and  was  oftener 
in  shrieking  demand,  than  any  other  person  on 
the  street,  for  Opal  washed  and  wiped  dishes 
for  her  mother,  swept,  dusted,  and  did  a  hun 
dred  and  one  things  about  the  housekeeping  at 
home,  and  often  helped  her  married  sisters  with 
their  work.  Besides,  they  depended  on  her  in 
a  great  measure  to  look  after  their  children, 
and  she  lifted  and  carried  fat  babies,  soothed 
fretful  ones,  fed  hungry  ones,  and  rocked  sleepy 
ones  at  all  hours  of  the  day;  yet  Opal's  mother 
was  always  scolding  her,  and  complaining  that 
Opal  never  did  anything  but  play  and  gad 
about. 

But  Opal  did  not  mind  the  scoldings  much; 
perhaps  she  had  grown  callous,  and  expected 
them  as  a  matter  of  course;  besides,  she  had 
little  time  to  think  out  personal  problems — there 
was  always  a  baby  to  tend.  And  Opal  loved 
the  babies;  their  rose-leaf  cheeks  and  chubby, 
mischievous  fingers  were  never  too  dirty  for  her 
to  kiss,  and  she  cared  for  them  with  all  the 
solicitude  of  a  little  mother.  She  soothed  their 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

fretfulness  when  their  mothers  could  do  nothing 
with  them,  and  with  a  practised  hand  she  would 
adjust  the  fat  twins  in  their  rickety  cart,  wedg 
ing  their  wobbly  bodies  in  securely  with  as  lit 
tle  fear  of  hurting  them  as  if  they  had  been 
India-rubber.  She  always  divided  her  candy 
with  the  vociferous  Butch,  and  gave  the  babies 
surreptitious  pieces  of  her  share,  though  Jule 
had  told  her  a  dozen  times  that  the  coloring 
matter  in  the  candy  was  liable  to  poison  them. 
But  Opal  encouraged  the  babies  to  eat  candy 
because  she  herself  liked  it  so  well,  even  if  it 
did  greatly  reduce  her  meagre  allowance.  And 
she  taught  Butch  to  drink  directly  from  the 
hydrant  without  the  intermediary  offices  of  a 
cup,  for  it  was  considered  a  great  feat  to  quench 
your  thirst  in  so  primitive  a  fashion. 

Although  Jule,  the  mother  of  the  twin  babies, 
Janice  and  Jasper,  lived  several  blocks  away, 
she  seemed  to  be  always  at  Ma  Flickinger's, 
coming  over  so  often  in  one  day  that  she  did 
not  think  it  necessary  to  transfer  v  the  twins 
back  and  forth  with  her  every  time,  but  brought 
them,  fairly  overflowing  the  edges  of  their  lit 
tle  cart,  at  six  or  seven  in  the  morning,  and  gen 
erally  let  them  stay  at  her  mother's  till  evening. 

Jule  was  strenuous,  not  particularly  in  caring 
6 


OPAL    AND    THE    PARADE 

for  her  family,  but  in  seeking  amusement  for 
them,  and — incidentally — for  herself,  and  in  de 
ploring  their  poverty  and  its  disadvantages. 
She  liked  always  to  be  going  somewhere,  and 
assumed  that  her  twins,  Janice  and  Jasper,  were 
of  the  same  mind.  But  when  her  babies  were 
not  going  "by-by,"  as  Jule  called  every  destina 
tion  to  them,  they  were  probably  being  tended 
by  Opal. 

"There's  a  dog-and-pony  show  in  town  to 
day!"  cried  Jule  one  morning,  bearing  down  on 
Ma  Flickinger's  front  yard  like  a  feminine  cy 
clone,  in  an  abbreviated  dressing-sack  and  a 
flapping  calico  skirt.  Opal  was  amusing  the 
twins,  whom  Jule  had  brought  over  an  hour 
before,  by  trickling  tiny  streams  of  water  on 
their  bare  feet  from  the  handy  hydrant,  while 
she  shelled  peas  for  dinner  betweentimes. 
"There's  more'n  fifty  ponies  and  dogs  .  .  .  and 
all  kinds  of  little  wagons  jest  like  big  ones,  and 
dozens  of  gold  chariots  .  .  .  and  a  brass-band 
drawed  by  ten  cream  -  colored  ponies.  Fairy 
Jones's  cousin  'phoned  her  about  it  jest  now." 

"Where's  it  goin'  to  be?"  asked  Opal,  alive 
at  once  to  the  exciting  possibilities. 

"Stop  spurtin'  water  on  them  twinses,  or  the 
first  thing  you  know  you'll  drown  'em,  and  I'll 

7 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

tell  you.  And  it  makes  me  so  mad  when  I 
think  how  their  pa  must  'a'  knowed  it  for  days 
and  days;  he  must  'a'  passed  the  bill-boards  on 
his  way  to  work,  and  yet  he  never  said  a  word. 
.  .  .  Jest  like  Milo,  though;  there  might  be  an 
elephant  in  the  woodshed,  and  he'd  never  open 
his  head.  I  suppose  the  show  '11  be  at  the 
old  fair-grounds,  and  of  course  the  parade  11  be 
down-town,  where  it  always  is.  I  don't  expect 
to  see  no  thin'  but  the  parade." 

"Can't  I  go,  Jule?"  questioned  Opal,  eagerly. 
"You're  goin',  ain't  you?" 

"Why,  I  don't  care  if  you  do;  yes,  I'm  goin' 
to  the  parade,  and,  what's  more,  I'm  goin'  to  take 
these  babies;  they  don't  never  go  nowhere  .  .  . 
nor  neither  do  I.  Their  pa  may  not  care  about 
their  never  seein'  no  thin',  but  I  do.  Mebbe 
you'd  better  ast  Ma  to  let  you  go,  so's  to  help 
with  'em.  And  tell  Elvie  and  Mandy,  'cause 
Butch  and  Beulah  oughtn't  to  miss  it." 

Then  Jule  jerked  Janice  and  Jasper  up, 
crammed  them  into  their  little  cart,  and  hur 
ried  away. 

"Better  eat  dinner  afore  you  start,  Opal,"  she 
called  back;  "for  you  can't  tell  what  time  we'll 
git  home.  Hustle,  now,  for  I  sha'n't  wait  a 
minute  for  nobody  when  I  git  ready.  These 


OPAL    AND    THE    PARADE 

young  ones  ain't  goin'  to  miss  the  parade  if  I 
can  help  it." 

Opal  flew  to  announce  the  dog -and -pony 
parade.  Ma  Flickinger,  a  thin,  stooped  woman, 
in  a  worn  black  calico  wrapper,  sighed  and  said 
if  she'd  knowed  it  time  enough  that  she  might 
have  undertook  to  have  saw  it  herself;  but  that 
Opal  might  go,  because  Jule  would  need  her  to 
help  with  the  twins.  Then  she  sent  Opal  to 
tell  Butch,  while  Ma  herself  broke  the  exciting 
news  to  El  vie  and  Beulah. 

Butch  could  go,  and  his  mother,  Opal's  mar 
ried  sister  Mandy,  pulled  Butch's  jubilant, 
squirming  body  into  an  old  Eton  jacket  that 
had  once  been  her  own,  but  was  cut  down  to  con 
form  a  little  more  nearly  to  Butch's  propor 
tions  ;  then  his  neck  was  encased  in  a  huge  linen 
collar  which  had  belonged  to  his  father,  pinned 
over  to  accommodate  itself  to  his  small  person. 

Opal  was  all  but  swept  off  her  feet  by  the 
excitement  of  the  coming  event:  a  dog-and- 
pony  show  in  town  already  preparing  for  a 
parade,  and  she  was  actually  going!  It  was 
wonderful,  exhilarating!  Her  dark  eyes  danced 
in  her  plain  face,  and  her  bare  feet  twinkled 
over  the  lawn  to  fairy  music.  She  could  almost 
hear  the  band  playing  then! 

9 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

In  frantic  haste  Opal  pulled  on  a  clean,  blue 
calico  dress;  strapped  a  vermilion  belt  about 
her  waist;  hopped  into  her  tan  stockings  and 
shoes;  pinned  her  flopping  straw  hat,  heavy 
with  faded  cotton  roses,  on  her  head;  jerked  the 
shoe-string  from  her  hair  without  removing  her 
hat,  and  tied  the  stubby  brown  braid  at  the 
nape  of  her  neck  with  a  stringy  red  ribbon,  for 
she  had  forgotten  all  about  combing  her  hair 
till  that  minute.  Next,  mindful  of  Jule's  in 
junction  to  eat  dinner  before  she  went,  she 
crammed  down  half  a  slice  of  bread  in  a  jiffy, 
chewing  heroically,  for  she  was  not  a  bit  hun 
gry.  Then  she  ran  down  to  see  when  Jule 
would  start. 

But  Jule,  who  had  declared  that  she  would 
wait  for  nobody,  true  to  her  word,  was  gone. 
The  key  hung  on  a  nail  beside  the  door,  the  cur 
tains  were  drawn,  and  Wopsie,  the  twins' 
puppy,  moped  at  the  end  of  his  chain  under 
one  corner  of  the  porch.  Opal,  depressed  by 
Jule's  departure,  hurried  back  to  Elvie. 

"Jule  and  the  twins  're  gone!"  panted  Opal, 
bursting  into  Elvie's  house. 

"Well,  that  beats  me!"  cried  Elvie,  who  was 
as  easy-going  as  her  sister  was  strenuous,  con 
tinuing  her  hurried  dressing.  "Here's  Jule  got 

10 


OPAL    AND    THE    PARADE 

them  two  twins  of  hern  and  herself  into  their 
best  clothes  and  is  off  afore  I'm  ready  with  one. 
Where's  Butch?  You  git  him  started;  then 
you  push  Beulah  in  the  go-cart  .  .  .  and  I'll 
hustle  along  as  soon  as  ever  I  can.  Try  to 
catch  up  with  Jule.  We'll  meet  at  the  main 
corners;  all  parades  pass  there.  And  don't 
overheat  the  baby,  but  hustle  .  .  .  Jule  walks 
like  a  race-horse." 

Butch  was  already  half  a  block  toward  town, 
quite  unconscious  of  the  incongruous  appear 
ance  of  his  ridiculous  Eton  jacket,  faded  blue 
overalls,  and  stiff  white  collar.  His  gray,  wool 
len  hat,  like  a  small  inverted  wash-bowl,  was 
pulled  jauntily  over  one  ear.  But  of  all  the  peo 
ple  in  the  big  crowd  that  day  there  was  probably 
not  one  better  pleased  with  his  sartorial  make 
up  than  was  Clarence  Augustus,  alias  Butch. 

Opal  started,  pushing  the  heavy  baby  in  her 
stubborn  little  cart,  which  never  seemed  to  make 
any  progress  except  down-grade.  Neverthe 
less,  she  soon  reached  Main  Street,  where  strag 
gling  throngs  of  boys  and  girls,  and  anxious 
mothers  propelling  baby-carriages  and  leading 
tots  of  tender  ages,  were  hurrying  down-town. 
There  were  also  a  few  apologetic  fathers,  who 
acted  as  if  they  ought  really  not  to  waste  their 

ii 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

time,  but  still  felt  it  their  duty  to  take  the 
children  to  see  the  dog-and-pony  parade. 

But  by  the  time  Opal  and  Butch  joined  Jule 
on  the  main  corners  there  was  a  fair-sized  crowd, 
and  when  Elvie  appeared  she  had  some  difficulty 
in  finding  her  sisters  and  the  babies. 

But  just  as  she  was  becoming  discouraged  in 
her  search,  Janice  and  Jasper,  freshened  up  by 
a  sloppy  drink  from  a  street  hydrant — which 
proved  more  of  a  bath  than  a  beverage  as  ad 
ministered  by  the  nervous  hand  of  Jule — rent 
the  air  with  one  of  their  characteristic  double 
wails.  And  Elvie,  making  her  way  persistently 
toward  the  sound,  found  them  in  a  little  group 
by  the  curbstone,  tired  and  perspiring. 

They  waited  and  waited.  Vague  reports  be 
gan  to  circulate  about  the  dog-and-pony  parade. 
It  would  be  there  at  twelve  o'clock;  then  some 
one  said  it  would  be  detained  an  hour  longer. 
Still  the  crowd  grew.  And  Butch  ran  about  like 
a  familiar  home-grown  clown,  by  reason  of  his 
strange  attire,  keeping  his  aunts  in  a  constant 
twitter  for  fear  he  would  get  lost. 

"We'll  go  off  and  leave  you,  Butch,  if  you 
don't  stop  traipsin'  round,"  declared  Elvie,  the 
large  purple  flowers  on  her  hat  bobbing  em 
phatically  with  her  nods. 

12 


OPAL    AND    THE    PARADE 

"  And  if  you're  lost  in  this  crowd,  Butch,  you 
can  never,  never  find  us  again,  and  then  you'll 
starve  to  death,"  warned  Opal,  solemnly,  who 
had  been  brought  up  on  just  such  tales  herself. 
The  common,  every-day  lie,  embellished  with 
striking  instances  of  realistic  horror,  was  much 
affected  for  purposes  of  discipline  by  the  whole 
Flickinger  family,  who  probably  never  stopped 
to  consider  that  they  were  telling  untruths, 
though  such  material,  as  far  as  the  children  were 
concerned,  was  worn  threadbare. 

Then  there  was  a  general  dispersal  of  the  peo 
ple,  for  some  one  said  that  the  parade  would  not 
pass  there,  but  would  cross  Sixth  Street,  four 
blocks  away.  Nearly  everybody  started  for 
Sixth  Street,  and  with  them  Jule  and  El  vie  and 
the  children.  And  Opal  tried  to  take  the  hand 
of  the  refractory  Butch,  to  keep  him  by  her. 

"Lemme  alone!"  he  snarled.  "I  ain't  no 
baby!" 

"Go  with  Opal,  Butch,  or  you'll  git  lost  in 
this  crowd.  Jule,  make  him  go  with  Opal;  he'll 
git  his  neck  broke  if  he  don't,"  appealed  Elvie, 
who  recognized  in  her  sister  a  certain  force  that 
she  herself  did  not  possess. 

"  Butch,  git  a-holt  there,  or  I'll  slap  you  one!" 
commanded  Jule. 

13 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

Butch  clinched  his  hand  behind  him,  and  the 
throng  poured  around  them. 

"Take  a-holt  there,  I  tell  you,  or  I'll  send 
Opal  home  with  you;  and  this  ain't  no  foolish 
talk  neither!"  scolded  Jule,  shrilly. 

And  Opal,  alarmed  lest  she  have  to  act  as  an 
unwilling  moral  tug  to  tow  the  recalcitrant  Butch 
back  to  safe  moorings,  clutched  his  wrist  with 
a  claw-like  grasp,  and,  jerking  him  forcibly  after 
her,  followed  her  sisters. 

Sixth  Street  was  reached,  but  it  seemed  that 
the  parade  was  not  coming  that  way  at  all; 
and  the  crowd  surged  breathlessly  back  to  Main, 
fearing  that  the  dogs  and  ponies  might  pass  in 
the  mean  time. 

"I  knew  we  was  fools  to  leave  the  main  cor 
ners,"  remarked  Jule,  crossly;  "here's  where 
we'll  see  the  show." 

"And  the  children  are  all  het  up  now,"  com 
plained  El  vie.  "  There,  Beulah,  don't  cry.  Want 
to  see  the  pretty,  pretty  bow-wows?" 

The  babies  had  been  tolerably  good  all  the 
morning,  but  were  now  growing  restless,  for  they 
were  tired  and  hungry. 

"Where  are  the  dogs  and  ponies?"  questioned 
Butch,  almost  in  tears. 

"Lord  knows,  I  don't,"  snapped  Jule;  "they 
14 


OPAL    AND    THE    PARADE 

ain't  in  this  town,  I  guess.     You  needn't  ex 
pect  to  see  no  thin'  to-day." 

Butch  began  to  sniff.  The  heat  of  his  jacket, 
which  he  was  too  proud  to  take  off,  and  the 
stiffness  of  his  collar  made  him  especially  irri 
table;  then,  to  be  defrauded  out  of  the  dog-and- 
pony  parade  was  more  than  he  could  bear  with 
patience,  and  he  blubbered  dolefully. 

"Never  mind,  Butchie,"  comforted  Opal, 
whose  dark  eyes  looked  wistfully  out  from  her 
tired  face,  "I'll  give  you  my  green-glass  marble 
when  we  git  home  if  you  won't  cry." 

"  Doh-unt  want — ut,"  sobbed  Butch.  "  I  want 
tuh  see  the  do-og-'n'-po-ony  sho-ow,  I  do!" 

Then  the  twins  began  to  cry — in  sympathy 
with  Butch,  perhaps,  though  they  already  had 
worries  of  their  own,  and  it  never  took  much 
to  upset  their  emotional  equilibrium  —  while 
Beulah  suddenly  lifted  her  voice  and  wailed  in 
chorus. 

"  I'll  never  take  a  young  one  to  a  show  ag'in," 
vowed  Jule,  "  if  I  live  to  be  a  million!" 

"They're  tired  and  hungry,"  said  Opal,  mild 
ly  resentful  because  her  sister  spoke  slightingly 
of  the  babies. 

"Ain't  we  all  tired  and  hungry,  I'd  like  to 
know?"  flared  Jule. 

15 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

*  Then  a  faint  sound  of  music,  scarcely  per 
ceptible  above  the  hum  of  voices,  vibrated 
through  the  air.  "The  show's  coming!"  ran 
electrically  through  the  crowd.  The  music 
deepened,  lulled,  swelled  again,  died  gradually 
away,  and  then  broke  shrilly  on  the  eager  ears 
of  the  waiting  people.  And  the  babies,  like 
living  barometers,  enlivened  by  the  returning 
good  nature  of  the  expectant  throng,  stopped 
crying. 

"I  said  that  this  was  the  best  place  to  see 
the  parade,"  observed  Jule,  complacently,  one 
foot  beating  time. 

"Good  enough,"  assented  Elvie,  cheerfully, 
straightening  her  hat  and  wiping  her  perspiring 
face,  and  then  Beulah's,  on  one  corner  of  the 
baby's  white  cotton  lap-robe. 

"The  dogs  and  ponies  is  comin'!"  exulted 
Butch,  standing  first  on  one  foot  and  then  on 
the  other,  and  forgetting  all  about  his  stiff  col 
lar  and  warm  coat  in  the  pleasures'  of  anticipa 
tion,  while  Opal  watched  with  her  eager  spirit 
shining  in  her  dark  eyes. 

"Do  you  suppose  the  dogs  will  be  hitched  to 
little  wagons,  Aunt  Jule?"  questioned  Butch. 

"Sure,  Butchie,"  returned  Jule,  genially,  mol 
lified  for  once  by  the  turn  affairs  had  taken. 

16 


OPAL    AND    THE    PARADE 

"Do  them  little  dogs  that  draw  wagons  like 
horses  eat  hay  like  real  horses,  Aunt  Jule?"  in 
quired  Butch.  "Say,  do  they?" 

But  Butch  was  not  answered,  for  Jule's  quick 
ear  had  sensed  that  the  parade  was  going  away 
from  them.  The  crowd  grew  uneasy.  Only  a 
moment  before  the  band  had  seemed  just  around 
the  corner;  now  the  music  grew  fainter  and 
fainter,  stopped  for  a  minute,  was  renewed  to 
a  scarcely  audible  vibration  of  sound,  and  died 
slowly  away  .  .  .  and  was  heard  no  more  on  the 
main  corners  that  day. 

"The  procession,"  shouted  a  man  on  horse 
back,  "will  not  come  down  farther  than  Sixth 
Street  ...  on  account  of  the  new  paving,  which 
the  authorities  will  not  let  us  use ;  the  procession 
will  go  directly  to  the  grounds  .  .  .  where  we  will 
exhibit  at  two  this  afternoon,  and  again  at  eight 
this  evening!" 

Jule  and  Elvie  stared  at  each  other  with  blank 
faces.  They  had  not  caught  all  the  man  said, 
but  had  heard  enough  to  know  that  the  nearest 
point  now  from  which  to  see  the  parade  was 
probably  Ross  Street,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
town. 

"  I  knew  Sixth  Street  was  the  best  place  all  the 
time,"  declared  Elvie. 

17 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"Then  why  didn't  you  stick  to  it?"  retorted 
Jule.  "If  you  had  we'd  have  saw  the  parade." 

"Well,  I  didn't,  and  there's  no  use  in  jawin' 
about  it.  We'll  have  to  go  home  now,"  said 
Elvie,  dejectedly;  "we  can't  push  these  young 
ones  to  Ross  Street  and  back  again  .  .  .  we'd  all 
be  dead." 

"  I  ain't  goin'  home  till  I  see  the  parade  if  I 
stay  till  Christmas,"  announced  Jule,  firmly. 
"I've  got  backbone  enough  when  I  go  to  see  a 
thing  to  stay  till  I  do  see  it." 

"But  we  can't  go  over  there  with  all  these 
young  ones,"  objected  Elvie. 

"Well,  we  needn't,"  responded  Jule.  "I'll 
tell  you  what  we'll  do :  me  and  you'll  go  to  Ross 
Street,  and  we'll  send  the  young  ones  home  .  .  . 
every  last  one  of  'em.  If  we  took  'em  we'd 
have  to  walk  lots  slower  and  maybe  miss  the 
parade.  I  don't  think  the  show  '11  amount  to 
much,  anyway.  They  might  better  go  home  and 
git  something  to  eat.  Besides,  the  sun's  boilin' 
hot,  and  a  dusty  street  ain't  no  place  for  babies. 
Opal  can  push  the  twins  back,  and  Butch  can 
push  Beulah;  he's  often  done  it.  You'd  jest  as 
soon  go  back,  wouldn't  you,  Opal?" 

Opal's  plain  little  face  was  strained  out  of  its 
natural  shape  in  her  efforts  to  keep  the  tears 

18 


OPAL    AND    THE    PARADE 

from  falling.  "  Let  me  and  Butch  push  'em  to 
Ross  Street,  and  you  and  El  vie  go  on  ahead," 
she  said. 

"Push  'em  to  Ross  Street!  You  must  be 
crazy,  Opal!"  exclaimed  Jule.  "You  and  Butch 
'd  be  dead  to  push  them  babies  there  in  all  this 
crowd.  No;  take  'em  home,  that's  the  sensible 
thing  to  do.  You're  all  tired  out  and  hungry. 
Tell  Ma  to  git  you  something  good  to  eat." 

"  I  et  my  dinner  before  I  started  .  .  .  you  told 
me  to,"  put  in  Opal. 

"I'll  bet  you  jest  bolted  a  crumb  or  two!" 
snapped  Jule. 

"I  et  a  slice  of  bread  .  .  .  nearly,"  answered 
honest  Opal. 

"Well,  what's  the  good  of  that  now?"  in 
quired  Jule,  tartly.  "A  sliver  of  bread  ain't  a 
whole  dinner.  'Come,  Opal,  be  a  good  girl;  you 
don't  want  to  drag  around  town  any  longer. 
It  '11  be  lots  nicer  at  home  on  the  lawn.  And 
you  can  stop  at  my  house  and  git  Wopsie ;  that 
pup  ought  not  to  be  tied  up  any  longer;  it's 
injurus  to  any  animal  to  keep  'em  tied  onto  a 
post  all  the  time.  Then  you'll  have  Wopsie  to 
play  with,  and  he's  more  fun  than  any  trained 
dog  I  ever  see;  he  can  do  everything  but  talk. 
And  we'll  tell  you  all  about  the  parade.  Come 

19 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

on,  Elvie,  I'm  goin'.  Good-by,  dear,"  she  said  to 
Opal;  then  she  kissed  the  twins,  and,  telling  them 
to  be  good  babies  and  go  "by-by"  with  Auntie 
Opal,  started  to  Ross  Street,  reluctantly  fol 
lowed  by  Elvie. 

"It  don't  seem  jest  the  right  thing  for  us  to 
send  the  young  ones  home  and  go  ourselves," 
worried  Elvie.  "  Opal's  such  a  good  little  thing 
that  she'd  do  anything  you  told  her  to,  even 
if  she  was  dyin'  to  go.  And  Butch  '11  break  his 
little  heart  if  he  misses  seein'  the  dogs  and 
ponies;  and  he'll  jounce  Beulah  into  mince 
meat,  he  always  snags  along  so  when  he's  mad. 
And  Beulah  ought  to  see  the  parade  if  any  of 
us  does;  she  always  claps  her  hands  jest  as  sweet 
when  she  sees  Jones's  pug,  even.  I  don't  know, 
Jule,  but  what  we've  done  a  foolish  thing — " 

"Aw,  shucks!"  cried  Jule,  "they're  all  right. 
Besides,"  she  added,  triumphantly,  "our  babies 
are  too  young  to  take  to  shows.  Hustle  up! 
You  ain't  got  any  more  gumption  than  a  wilted 
rag!  I  hear  the  band  ag'in." 

And  Opal?  She  was  not  much  surprised.  It 
had  all  seemed  like  a  dream,  anyway.  But  she 
was  none  the  less  disappointed,  though  things 
like  that  were  always  happening  to  her. 

Butch,  tearful  and  angry,  was  openly  rebellious, 


OPAL    AND    THE    PARADE 

and  bumped  roughly  on  with  the  cart,  till  Beu- 
lah  was  in  danger  of  her  life. 

"Do  be  a  good  boy,  Butchie,"  coaxed  Opal, 
"  and  I'll  give  you  my  green-glass  marble— sure!" 

Butch  was  not  to  be  bribed  by  so  paltry  an 
offer,  and  stumped  unevenly  along,  sniffing  dis 
consolately. 

"And  my  striped  blue  one,  too,"  added  Opal. 

By  the  time  she  had  promised  Butch  half  her 
marbles,  he  began  to  take  an  interest  in  life 
again,  and  propelled  Beulah  a  little  less  spite 
fully. 

Opal  pushed  the  heavy  twins  willingly  enough, 
if  it  was  hard  work;  but  as  they  were  not  to 
blame  for  her  miserable  day,  she  saw  no  reason 
to  make  them  suffer  for  her  disappointment. 
But  the  spirit  of  Butch  was  made  of  sterner  stuff, 
and  he  resented  the  turn  affairs  had  taken  with 
royal  ill-will,  modified  only  by  the  promise  of 
marbles,  which  was  too  prodigal  to  be  slighted. 

Occasionally  they  heard  the  band;  yet  this 
only  added  to  the  bitterness  of  their  return.  But 
as  they  neared  home  the  music  burst  out  with 
a  sudden  blare,  and  coming  down  their  own 
street  they  saw  a  line  of  moving  objects,  half- 
hidden  by  the  dust. 

Could  it  be  the  dog -and -pony  parade?    It 

3  21 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

must  be,  for  the  band  sounded  louder  and  louder, 
crashing  out  a  popular  air!  It  appeared  that 
Fairy  Jones's  cousin  had  not  said,  when  she  tele 
phoned,  that  the  show  was  not  to  be  held  on  the 
old  fair-grounds  because  of  some  difficulty  about 
renting  the  field ;  but  the  tents  had  been  pitched 
in  a  vacant  lot  not  far  from  Loretta  Avenue. 

The  rejuvenated  Butch  pushed  the  stubborn, 
heavily  laden  little  cart  with  the  zeal  of  a  galley- 
slave  rowing  toward  liberty.  And  Opal  ceased 
to  feel  the  strain  on  her  frail  young  arms,  and  her 
heart  rose  like  a  lump  of  lead  transmuted  into  a 
happy  bird  with  eager  wings  as  she  tugged  the 
protesting  old  cab  on  to  their  own  lawn. 

Just  as  the  procession  came  by,  Butch  and 
Opal  dropped,  panting,  on  the  grass.  And  oh, 
the  wonders  of  that  dog -and -pony  parade! 
Shaggy  Shetland  ponies,  with  dragging  tails  and 
heavy  manes,  pulled  gaudy  little  chariots  that 
glittered  with  real  gold  and  silver  for  Butch  and 
Opal!  A  team  of  eight  cream  -  colored  ponies 
drew  the  musicians  in  a  beautiful  gilded  boat  on 
wheels!  Half  a  dozen  piebald  ponies  reminded 
the  delighted  Butch  of  calico  kittens!  And 
every  pony  had  a  gay  ornament  of  bright  red 
feathers  nodding  proudly  above  its  head! 

Besides,  there  were  white  dogs,  black  dogs, 

22 


BUTCH    PUSHED   WITH   THE    ZEAL   OF    A    GALLEY-SLAVE 


OPAL    AND    THE    PARADE 

brown  dogs,  dogs  with  rough  coats  and  coats 
that  shone  like  satin;  all  kinds  of  dogs  trotted 
patiently  in  harness  or  sat  soberly  in  little 
wagons  driving  other  dogs. 

"  Do  dogs  that  draw  wagons  jest  like  horses 
eat  hay  like  real  horses?  Say,  Ma,  say, 
Gramma,  do  they  ?"  questioned  Butch;  but 
neither  his  mother  nor  his  grandmother,  who 
had  come  out  on  the  lawn  to  see  the  parade, 
had  time  to  answer  him  then. 

And  all  the  while  the  band  played,  transform 
ing  their  plebeian  street  into  an  enchanted  fairy 
land  to  Butch  and  Opal ;  but  the  babies  showed 
only  a  languid  interest  in  the  parade  when  their 
grandmother  urged  them  to  see  the  "pretty, 
pretty  bow-wows";  and  before  the  glowing 
pageant  had  passed,  Janice  and  Jasper  and  Beu- 
lah,  nodding  drowsy  heads  like  top-heavy  rubber 
dolls,  went  peacefully  to  sleep. 

An  hour  later  Jule  and  El  vie  came  dejectedly 
home.  They  had  not  caught  even  a  glimpse  of 
the  dogs  and  ponies. 

"  I  guess  the  show  didn't  amount  to  much  or 
it  wouldn't  have  come  on  this  out-of-the-way 
street,"  remarked  Jule,  sourly. 

But  Opal  was  happy,  dreaming  over  the  won 
ders  of  the  gay  parade  as  she  kept  the  flies,  with 

25 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

a  feathery  asparagus  spray,  from  the  faces  of  the 
sleeping  babies  that  lay  on  a  quilt  on  the  lawn, 
probably  no  worse  off  for  the  day's  excitement 
in  which  their  mothers  had  been  so  anxious  for 
them  to  participate.  And  Butch  was  happy, 
walking  about  on  his  hands  and  knees,  hitched 
to  his  express  -  wagon,  playing  that  he  was  a 
circus  dog,  and  still  curious  to  know  if  dogs  that 
were  trained  as  horses  ate  hay  like  real  horses. 


II 

OPAL'S     HALF-HOLIDAY 

THE  three  dirty  yellow  tenement  houses, 
with  dingy  white  trimmings,  were  baking 
in  the  August  sun,  and  the  front  lawns  lay 
brown  and  lifeless,  with  the  exception  of  a  brill 
iant  ring  of  green  grass  before  the  middle  house, 
which  marked  a  space  about  the  hydrant. 

And  here  in  the  hot  sun,  bareheaded  and  un 
protected  from  its  fierce  beams,  sat  Opal  on  the 
damp,  warm  ground,  tending  the  twins,  Janice 
and  Jasper.  She  had  washed  and  wiped  the 
dinner  dishes,  swept  the  floor  and  the  porch,  and 
was  now  waiting  impatiently  for  Jule  to  come 
and  get  the  twins;  for  Opal,  who  scarcely  ever 
went  anywhere,  was  expecting  to  go  tor  an  out 
ing  that  very  afternoon  unless  something  hap 
pened — which  she  more  than  half -expected. 

''You'll  bake  them  twins!"  cried  Jule,  shrilly, 
appearing  suddenly  around  the  corner  of  her 
sister  El  vie' s  house,  the  yellow  tenement  on  the 

27 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

north  side  of  Opal's  home,  her  scanty  red  Mother- 
Hubbard  a  foot  too  short  in  front,  but  dragging 
a  ruffled  tail  in  the  back. 

"Say,  Jule,"  said  Opal,  not  caring  if  the  twins 
did  bake,  "I'm  goin'  to  St.  Joe  this  afternoon." 

St.  Joe,  a  neighboring  town  on  Lake  Michigan, 
was  a  common  Mecca  in  the  summer-time  for 
people  for  miles  around. 

"Goin'  to  St.  Joe?  Yes,  I  guess  you  be!"  Jule 
spoke  sarcastically.  "I  suppose  we're  all  goin' 
over:  me  and  you,  and  the  twins,  and  Pa  and  Ma, 
and  Milo,  and  El  vie,  and  Beulah,  and  Wopsie" 
(Jule  kept  adding  on  members  of  the  family  as 
she  thought  of  them),  "and  Bill,  and  Jed,  too — 
yes,  we're  all  goin'  over  in  Old  Man  Snather's 
automobile." 

"  Hope  to  die,  I'm  goin',"  declared  Opal.  "  Pa 
said  I  could." 

"What's  the  use  of  your  talkin'  like  that?" 
snapped  Jule.  "Pa's  savin'  every  cent  for  rent." 

But  Opal,  ceasing  to  feel  responsible  for  the 
twins,  now  that  their  mother  had  come,  had 
skipped  quickly  into  the  house  to  get  ready. 

Jule  followed,  leaving  the  babies  to  bake  on 
the  lawn ;  but  they  were  used  to  it,  and  tumbled 
about  and  blinked  good-naturedly,  as  if  there 
were  no  such  thing  as  a  warm  day. 

28 


OPAL'S    HALF-HOLIDAY 

Ma  FHckinger  sat  in  the  small  sitting-room 
that  also  did  duty  for  a  dining-room,  basting  up 
a  blue  calico  dress  for  Opal  with  swift,  jerky 
fingers,  her  thin,  stooped  form  clad  in  a  rusty 
black  wrapper  destitute  of  a  collar.  Her  scanty 
black  hair  was  pulled  tightly  back  from  her  pale 
face,  and  wound  into  a  small,  hard  knot  at  the 
nape  of  her  neck.  She  looked  like  an  old  woman, 
though  she  could  not  have  been  much  past 
forty-five. 

"Opal  says  she's  goin'  over  to  St.  Joe,"  an 
nounced  Jule,  as  if  it  were  a  personal  griev 
ance. 

"She  is."     Ma  FHckinger  basted  on. 

"Well,  off  all  things,"  commented  Jule,  sourly, 
"  on  a  hot  day  like  this !  I  shouldn't  think  you'd 
let  her  go  over  there,  anyway,"  she  went  on; 
"money  ain't  so  plenty  in  this  family  that  every 
kid  can  spend  their  afternoons  at  a  summer 
resort." 

"  She  wouldn't  go  if  I  had  my  way,"  admitted 
Ma,  "but  Opal,  she  teased  and  teased.  She's 
been  teasin'  ever  since  you  and  Elvie  went  over 
and  she  had  to  stay  at  home  and  tend  the  babies. 
And  her  Pa  promised  her  that  day  that  she  could 
go  some  time.  And  so  to-day,  when  she  kept 
sayin',  'Pa,  can't  I?'  he  up  and  threw  her  a 

29 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

quarter,  and  now  she's  goin'  with  the  Weber 
girls  and  their  mother." 

"Pa  must  have  money  to  burn.  But,  then, 
Pa  never  did  have  no  sense  about  money  matters. 
Ten  cents  would  take  Opal  over  and  back.  I 
might  go  with  her  on  that  quarter  if  I  didn't 
have  to  sew  on  my  new  green  -  striped  lawn, 
though  I  don't  care  whether  I  ever  finish  it  or 
not.  I  ain't  got  no  enthusiasm  workin'  on  a 
thing  that  '11  never  be  worn." 

"You  can  wear  it  if  you  ever  git  it  done," 
remarked  her  mother. 

"Where'd  I  ever  go  to  wear  a  nice  dress  like 
that?  I  never  go  nowhere  but  to  the  corner 
grocery  and  here.  I  was  a  crazy  fool  ever  to 
git  the  goods  in  the  first  place,  but  the  clerk 
said  it  would  look  good  on  me;  he  said  it  was 
jest  my  color  —  and  it  is,  too.  I  thought 
mebbe  Opal  'd  mind  the  twins  while  I  sewed; 
but,  no,  she's  got  to  go  gallivantin'  over  to 
St.  Joe!" 

"I  need  her  here,  too;  I  dunno  when  she 
could  have  took  a  worse  time  for  goin',"  com 
plained  her  mother;  " and  Mandy  wanted  her  to 
look  after  Butch  for  an  hour  or  two — now  I'll 
have  to  do  it;  and  Elvie  said  somethin'  about 
Opal's  tendin'  Beulah  this  afternoon  while  she 

30 


OPAL'S    HALF-HOLIDAY 

went  down-town ;  but,  no,  Pa  says,  '  Let  her  go 
to  St.  Joe  and  git  done  with  it."! 

"Pa's  too  easy,"  declared  Jule. 

"  Besides,  I'm  always  afraid  that  some  of  my 
young  ones  will  fall  into  that  lake,"  worried  Ma. 
"  I  sha'n't  have  a  minute's  peace  while  she's 
gone." 

"  If  Opal  goes  and  falls  into  Lake  Michigan 
and  drowns  herself,  she  won't  feel  so  funny  over 
her  trip,"  was  Jule's  parting  shot,  as  she  started 
home. 

"  I  dunno  as  you  ought  to  go,  Opal,"  said  her 
mother,  when  the  little  girl  came  down-stairs  in 
her  clean,  blue  calico  dress,  but  wearing  her  best 
hat,  with  its  heavy  faded  cotton  roses  and  flap 
ping  brim. 

"Why  not?"     Opal's  heart  beat  distressingly. 

"Well,  it's  hot;  and  I  need  you  here  to  pull 
bastin's  for  me;  and  Jule  wants  to  sew  on  her 
new  green  lawn,  but  there's  nobody  to  tend  the 
babies ;  and  Elvie  'd  like  to  go  down-town,  if  you 
was  here  to  take  care  of  Beulah;  and  Mandy 
said  somethin'  about  your  lookin'  after  Butch 
for  a  spell.  It  seems  about  the  worst  time  you 
could  have  took.  But  I  dunno,"  gave  in  Ma, 
noticing  Opal's  downcast  face.  "Yes,"  she 
added,  suddenly,  "go  on;  Pa  give  you  the 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

money.    Take  it  and  go.    We'll  git  along  some 
way. 

"But  that  twenty-five  cents  your  Pa  give 
you  would  git  me  a  new  calico  Mother-Hubbard 
apron,"  continued  Ma,  absently,  to  herself;  "my 
old  one's  in  slits;  I  ain't  washed  it  on  a  board 
for  a  month — it  'd  fall  to  pieces  if  I  did.  What  're 
you  waitin'  for,  Opal?" 

"Mebbe  I'd  better  not  go,"  said  Opal,  stand 
ing  irresolutely  in  the  doorway. 

"Go!  Land  sakes,  ain't  I  said  'yes'  a  dozen 
times!  Ain't  you  got  that  quarter  your  Pa 
give  you  tied  up  in  your  handkerchief  ?  Go  on !' ' 

Opal  started,  not  at  all  pleased  that  she  could 
go,  now  that  there  had  been  so  much  talk  about 
it;  but  she  had  not  reached  the  sidewalk  when 
her  mother  appeared  hurriedly  at  the  door. 

"  Opal,"  yelled  Ma  Flickinger,  "  wait  a  minute!" 

"Yes,  Ma." 

"Don't  go  close  to  the  lake  —  I'm  afraid  as 
death  of  it;  and  don't  take  off  your  shoes  and 
stockings,  no  matter  what  the  Webers  say ;  and 
keep  your  hat  on  your  head,  it's  safest  there — 
if  you  lay  it  on  the  ground  somebody  might  steal 
it  while  you  wasn't  lookin';  and  don't  spend 
nothin'  but  for  car-fare ;  and  come  home  as  early 
as  you  can." 

32 


OPAL'S    HALF-HOLIDAY 

"Yes'm,"  answered  Opal,  and  started  again. 
But  she  had  a  dull  feeling  that  she  was  doing  a 
very  selfish  thing,  and  that  her  father  had  not 
really  wanted  her  to  have  the  money. 

Ma  Flickinger  cut  and  basted  and  basted  and 
cut;  then,  with  a  whirring  abstraction,  rushed  her 
sewing  through  the  machine.  Flies  gathered  on 
the  outside  of  the  screen  door.  The  air  was 
heavy  with  the  odors  of  many  meals  and  dusty 
carpets,  and  it  dulled  her  head  and  made  her 
listless ;  but  she  kept  nervously  at  work. 

"  Opal!    Where's  Opal  ?"  shouted  a  boy's  voice. 

"Opal's  gone  over  to  St.  Joe,"  said  Ma  Flick 
inger,  as  her  small  grandson  Butch  looked  in- 
through  the  screen. 

"Where's  that?"  asked  Butch,  idly. 

"  You  know  where  it  is,"  answered  Ma ;  "  over 
by  the  lake." 

"When'd  she  go?"  continued  Butch,  undis 
turbed  by  his  grandmother's  shortness. 

"After  dinner." 

"What  'd  she  go  over  there  for?"  inquired 
Butch.  As  an  interlocutor  he  might  have  made 
a  fortune  if  mere  number  of  questions  counted. 

"To  see  the  lake,"  said  his  patient  grand 
mother. 

"She'll  fall  in,"  observed  Butch,  sagely,  sit- 
33 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

ting  soberly  on  the  porch  and  striking  at  the 
flies  on  the  screen  with  a  switch. 

As  his  grandmother  said  nothing,  he  asked, 
"Won't  she  fall  in,  Gramma?  Won't  she?" 

"I  dunno — yes,  I  suppose  so,"  answered  Ma, 
absently,  without  realizing  what  she  said. 

A  shrill  cry  broke  through  the  buzzing  of 
the  machine.  "Good  gracious!"  exclaimed  Ma 
Flickinger,  starting  up  from  her  work,  "who's 
hurt?"  and  darted  out  of  the  house  just  in  time 
to  meet  Jule,  breathless  and  very  red  in  the 
face,  pushing  one  baby  in  the  rickety  old  cart 
and  carrying  the  other  doubled  over  her  arm. 

"Ma,  oh,  Ma!  Opal's  drowned  in  the  lake!" 
cried  Jule,  wildly. 

"Drowned!"  Ma  Flickinger  sank  weakly  on 
the  porch  steps  and  wrapped  her  hands  in  her 
apron;  for  suddenly  she  was  cold  and  sick,  and 
unable  to  stand.  She  had  known  all  the  time 
that  one  of  her  children  would  be  drowned  in 
Lake  Michigan! 

"Yes,"  shrieked  Jule,  "Opal's  drowned  her 
self!  Somebody  over  there  'phoned  to  Fairy 
Jones's  mother,  and  she  jest  come  over  and  told 
me.  And  they've  'phoned  to  Pa  at  the  factory, 
and  he's  gone  over." 

Butch  eyed  his  Aunt  Jule  in  open-mouthed 
34 


'OPAL'S     DROWNED     IN     THE     LAKE!"     CRIED     JULE,    WILDLY 


OPAL'S    HALF-HOLIDAY 

astonishment.  At  length,  however,  getting  it 
into  his  somewhat  thick  head  that  Opal  was 
drowned,  he  immediately  proceeded  with  the 
important  news  to  the  nearest  neighbors;  but 
nothing  in  his  mode  of  delivery  would  have  led 
one  to  suppose  that  he  was  sorry;  it  was  with 
conscious  pride  and  vainglory  that  he  went 
about  crying,  "Opal's  drowned!" 

Soon  the  yard  was  full  of  voluble  neighbors, 
questioning,  sympathizing,  commenting.  Jule 
was  in  her  element.  It  is  doubtful  if  she  had 
ever  experienced  a  more  triumphant  half -hour. 
For  her  mother  seemed  dazed,  and  only  spoke 
brokenly  now  and  then;  while  Elvie,  coming 
over  with  Beulah  in  her  arms,  sobbed  openly; 
and  Mandy,  Butch's  mother,  blubbered  fitfully; 
so  it  was  left  to  Jule  to  entertain  the  crowd  on 
the  lawn.  Of  course,  Jule  was  sorry,  too;  but 
the  joy  of  being  for  once  in  her  life  important 
outweighed  grief.  For  poor  Jule,  who  had  mar 
ried  at  fourteen,  was  scarcely  less  of  a  child  than 
Butch,  and  she  still  longed,  with  all  the  force  of 
her  starved  nature,  for  notice  and  praise. 

"Opal  was  such  a  good  little  thing!"  said  soft 
hearted  Elvie,  between  her  sobs.  "  Beulah  'd 
go  to  her  as  quick  as  she  would  to  me  or 
her  pa." 

35 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"  Opal  took  more  care  of  the  twins  than  I  ever 
did!"  testified  Jule,  truthfully. 

"She  never  complained,  and  she  worked  all 
the  time  like  a  slave!"  moaned  Ma  Flickinger. 
"I  never  had  a  cross  word  from  that  child. 
And  I  fairly  begrudged  her  that  twenty-five 
cents,"  she  added,  remorsefully. 

"  Opal's  looked  after  Butch  ever  since  he  was 
a  baby,"  said  Mandy.  "Butch  '11  miss  her 
awful!" 

"And  she  never  went  nowhere!"  cried  Jule, 
transferring  her  own  pet  grievance  to  Opal. 
"Pa's  been  promisin'  her  to  go  to  St.  Joe  for 
years." 

"Somebody's  always  gettin'  drowned  in  that 
lake.  I  should  think  it  could  be  stopped  some 
how,"  complained  a  thin  little  neighbor  in  a 
faded  calico  dress,  with  a  towel  over  her  head, 
holding  a  rosy-cheeked  child  in  each  hand,  while 
they  looked  with  wide  eyes  at  the  excited  group 
of  women. 

Butch  was  enjoying  himself  to  the  fullest 
extent.  "Opal's  drowned!"  he  yelled,  spying 
Fairy  Jones,  who  was  coming  toward  the  house. 
Fairy's  red  pigtails,  which  hung  in  thick  braids 
from  her  top-heavy  head,  were  almost  the  same 
color  as  her  fat,  freckled  cheeks. 

36 


OPAL'S    HALF-HOLIDAY 

"She  ain't,  neither,  drowned,"  contradicted 
Fairy,  with  placid  superiority. 

"She  is,  too!"  shouted  Butch,  angrily. 

"Shut  up!"  advised  Fairy,  loftily.  "Mis' 
Flickinger,"  she  began,  importantly,  having 
made  her  way  through  the  crowd  till  she  stood 
in  front  of  Opal's  mother,  "my  mamma  told  me 
to  tell  you  that  it  ain't  Opal  that's  drowned  at 
all.  They  jest  'phoned  from  St.  Joe  that  it's 
somebody  else!" 

The  burden  of  her  errand  removed,  Fairy 
stared  with  great,  wondering,  pale-blue  eyes  at 
Ma  Flickinger,  who  suddenly  slumped  in  a  heap 
bn  the  porch  steps  in  a  faint. 

Jule,  grabbing  up  a  decapitated  drum  that 
Butch  had  left  on  the  grass,  filled  it  with  water 
at  the  hydrant,  and,  with  the  help  of  officious 
neighbors,  brought  Ma  back  to  consciousness. 

"It  give  me  a  turn!"  said  Ma,  shortly,  when 
she  could  talk,  evidently  displeased  with  herself 
for  showing  so  much  emotion.  "  I  hope  Opal 
didn't  muss  her  hat  or  have  it  stole;  I  worried 
all  the  afternoon  about  lettin'  her  wear  it." 

The  neighbors  trailed  off  home,  recalling  other 
cases  of  people  who  had  been  drowned,  or  re 
ported  drowned,  in  Lake  Michigan,  while  Ma 
made  hasty  preparations  for  supper. 
4  37 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"  Folks  talk  more  foolishness  over  the  'phone!" 
declared  Jule,  who  was  surreptitiously  crying 
for  joy  over  a  piece  of  bread  and  jam,  which  she 
was  eating  with  much  relish  in  Ma's  pantry. 
"All  this  fuss  came  through  the  'phone.  Some 
folks  'd  'phone  for  the  police  if  a  fly  fell  into  the 
water-pail!" 

Just  then  Pa  Flickinger,  tall  and  bowed  from 
many  years  of  hard  work,  shuffled  into  the 
house. 

Ma  and  Jule  looked  at  him  expectantly;  but 
he  only  said,  shortly,  "Supper  ready?" 

"Where's  Opal?"  demanded  Jule. 

"  Back  a  piece  talkin'  with  Mis'  Jones.  Sup 
per  ready,  old  woman?" 

"Wash  yourself  at  the  spout,  and  it'll  be," 
answered  Ma  from  the  kitchen,  where  she  was 
flying  swiftly  about  to  make  up  for  lost  time. 
"Better  eat  with  us,  Jule,  seein'  you're  here." 

"I  guess  I  will,"  replied  Jule,  who  was  dying 
to  know  how  it  was  that  Opal  was  not  drowned. 

Butch  was  openly  disgruntled  at  the  turn 
affairs  had  taken.  All  of  a  sudden  the  excite 
ment  was  over,  and  he  was  of  no  importance 
whatever;  instead  of  that,  out  on  the  sidewalk, 
Fairy  Jones  was  the  centre  of  attraction. 

Bill,  the  eldest  son,  who  was  as  tall  as  his 
38 


OPAL'S    HALF-HOLIDAY 

father,  and  Jed,  next  older  than  Opal,  came 
home  from  work  tired  and  hungry,  washed  si 
lently  at  the  hydrant,  and,  slouching  with  awk 
ward  clatter  into  the  house,  took  their  places  at 
the  table.  They  felt  no  interest  in  Jule's  ac 
count  of  the  accident;  they  had  heard  it  all 
from  the  sympathetic  neighbors  before  they  got 
home.  Now  they  wanted  to  eat. 

Opal  came  hurrying  in  just  as  the  family  be 
gan  their  supper. 

"Did  you  muss  your. hat?"  asked  her  mother, 
sharply. 

"Not  much,"  replied  Opal,  timidly.  But  as 
one  of  the  Weber  girls  had  inadvertently  sat 
upon  it  while  she  had  it  off  for  a  moment  to 
smooth  her  hair,  it  looked  rather  lopsided. 

Ma  Flickinger  grabbed  the  hat  and  eyed  it 
critically,  but  she  spoke  so  kindly  that  Opal 
was  surprised.  "  Well,  it  won't  last  more'n  this 
summer  anyway,  cotton  roses  fade  so;  they're 
too  delicate  to  last  a  day  in  the  hot  sun.  Set 
down  and  eat,  Opal;  you  must  be  hungry." 

"Think  you're  smart,  don't  you,  Opal,"  re 
marked  Jule,  "  to  have  folks  'phonin'  all  over  the 
country  that  you're  drowned  in  the  lake,  and 
then  turnin'  up  without  a  drop  of  water  on 
you?  It  seems  to  me — " 

39 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"That's  enough  of  that  blab,"  interrupted  Pa 
Flickinger,  gruffly.  "Opal  wa'n't  to  blame  for 
a  fool  kid  thinkin'  it  was  her  and  'phonin'  in." 

"I  suppose  there  wa'n't  nobody  drowned  at 
all,  then,"  observed  Jule,  sourly. 

"A  kid  did  fall  in — but  she  come  to — about 
the  size  of  Opal,  if  you've  got  to  know  every 
blamed  detail!"  growled  Pa,  who  himself,  know 
ing  just  how  everything  happened,  was  through 
with  the  whole  matter,  and  wanted  to  eat  his 
supper  in  peace. 

Butch  stood  outside,  pressing  his  nose  against 
the  screen.  Nobody  noticing  him,  he  yelled, 
absent-mindedly,  "Opal's  drowned!" 

"Shut  up!"  shouted  Pa  Flickinger. 

"Had  your  supper,  Butchie?"  questioned  Ma, 
whose  chief  pleasure  in  life  was  to  feed  people. 

"Naw,"  grunted  Butch. 

"Opal,  git  a  plate.  Here,  Butchie,  crowd 
your  chair  in  between  me  and  Opal." 

"Jule  here?"  inquired  a  meek  voice  outside. 

"Yes,  I  be,"  answered  Jule. 

"  I  ain't  saw  no  supper  down  our  way."  Milo, 
the  father  of  Janice  and  Jasper,  spoke  mildly. 
He  was  a  stooped  young  fellow,  and  looked  dead 
tired. 

"No,  Jule's  eatin'   here,"  called   Ma,  hospi- 
40 


OPAL'S    HALF-HOLIDAY 

tably.  "Opal,  git  another  plate.  Wash  yourself 
at  the  spout,  Milo,  and  come  in." 

"What  you  got  to  eat?"  inquired  Milo,  rather 
to  be  polite  than  because  he  wanted  to  know. 

"Pork  and  beans  and  johnny-cake,"  an 
swered  Ma,  briskly.  "Come  on." 

"  I  don't  care  if  I  do,"  said  Milo.  He  shambled 
out  to  the  hydrant,  and,  soon  returning  with 
very  red  hands  and  face,  was  wedged  in  between 
Bill  and  Jed. 

The  family  all  ate  ravenously  —  excepting 
Ma,  who  scarcely  touched  her  supper  —  with 
a  great  clatter  of  knives  and  forks  and  dishes. 
Opal  sat  eating  silently,  wondering  over  the 
strange  tale  that  the  neighbors  had  told  her  of 
her  mother's  fainting.  She  had  expected  to  get 
a  good  cuffing,  a  favorite  mode  of  punishment 
in  Ma's  family,  or  even  a  whipping  for  caus 
ing  so  much  trouble;  but  she  found  every  one 
singularly  kind.  Nobody  scolded  her.  Ma  had 
not  minded  about  the  crumpled  roses.  Pa  had 
stopped  long  enough  in  his  hasty  stowing  away 
of  victuals  to  dump  her  out  such  a  generous 
supply  of  beans  that,  had  she  eaten  them  all, 
they  would  have  taken  her  off  with  as  much 
dispatch  as  Lake  Michigan — had  she  really  fallen 
in.  Jed,  with  untold  sacrifice,  stuck  on  her 

41 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

plate  a  pork  rind  which  he  had  found  in  his 
beans,  a  courtesy  that  he  had  not  shown  her 
since  she  had  the  measles.  And  Bill,  after  help 
ing  himself  liberally  to  jam,  spooned  out  almost 
as  much  for  Opal.  Coming  from  Bill,  this  was 
a  wonderful  condescension. 

Pa  Flickinger  had  something  on  his  mind,  but 
it  was  first  necessary  for  him  to  coal  up,  meta 
phorically  speaking,  on  pork  and  beans  and 
johnny-cake,  before  he  could  waste  much  time 
in  speech. 

Finally  he  spoke  out  between  his  bites  of 
bread  and  jam:  "St.  Joe's  a  mighty  slick  little 
place  in  the  summer-time." 

"Bill's  got  a  girl  over  to  St.  Joe,"  unexpect-" 
edly  announced  Butch,  who  was  a  perfect  treas 
ure-chest  of  precious  bits  of  gossip. 

"Shut  up!"  growled  Bill;  but  he  could  not 
help  grinning  to  think  that  the  knowledge  of 
Sophie  Budzbanowsky  had  percolated  into 
Loretta  Avenue. 

"They've  got  a  baby  railroad  train  over 
there,"  went  on  Pa  Flickinger,  "drawed  by  a 
engine  no  bigger'n  half  a  decent-sized  one." 

"Well  said!"  exclaimed  Ma,  interested  at 
once. 

"And  a  toboggan  slide,  and  a  big  pavilion 
42 


OPAL'S    HALF-HOLIDAY 

with  a  band,  and  walks  that's  fairly  lined  with 
tintype  galleries.  I  was  a-goin'  to  say —  That 
is,  I  ain't  been  over  there  for  ten  year,"  con 
cluded  Pa,  lamely.  He  had  evidently  intended 
to  say  something  else,  but  could  not  work  him 
self  up  to  the  point. 

"I  ain't  been  over  to  St.  Joe  but  once  since 
the  day  I  was  married,"  remarked  Jule,  gloomily. 

"There's  the  dangdest  little  merry-go-round 
over  there,"  continued  Pa. 

"  Is 't  got  real  horses,  Grandpa?"  asked  Butch. 

"No,  Butchie,  they're  only  fakes."  Then  Pa 
cleared  his  throat  unnecessarily,  and  blurted  out : 
"I've  got  a  invite  to  go  over  to  St.  Joe  to  a 
picnic." 

"What  picnic?"  gasped  Ma,  utterly  surprised. 
It  was  years  since  she  had  been  to  a  picnic. 

"The  boys  in  our  factory  is  goin'  to  have  a 
picnic  on  Labor  Day,  and  we're  all  invited." 

"Are  you  invited,  Milo?"  questioned  Jule, 
breathlessly. 

;<  'Pears  like,"  mumbled  her  husband,  with  his 
meek  eyes  deep  in  the  cracked  cup  that  held  his 
tea.  "  I  work  where  your  Pa  does." 

"Then,  out  with  it!"  cried  Jule,  impatiently. 
"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  afore?  I'm  goin'." 

"Of  course  we  can't  none  of  us  go,"  said  Ma, 
43 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

regretfully,  "but  it  would  be  nice  if  we  could. 
I  ain't  been  in  St.  Joe  since  Opal  was  a  baby." 

"  It's  only  a  mile  on  the  street-car  from  down 
town,"  grinned  Bill. 

"  I  kinder  thought,  seein'  that  the  boss  asked 
me  and  the  family  particular-like,  that  we'd  bet 
ter  see  if  we  couldn't  go,"  said  Pa.  "And  then 
when  I  went  over  and  got  Opal,  and  saw  how 
they'd  got  things  laid  out  there,  I  jest  made  up 
my  mind  that  we'd  all  go." 

"'Twon't  cost  nothin',"  said  Mllo,  unexpect 
edly  supplementing  his  father-in-law;  "the  boss 
he  pays  for  the  street-car." 

"We  might  go,"  said  Ma,  uncertainly,  to  her 
self. 

"If  we  wa'n't  asked  special-like,"  began  Pa, 
and  then  weakly  stopped. 

"That  does  make  a  difference,"  admitted  Ma. 

"I'm  goin'  home  to  work  on  my  new  green 
lawn!"  cried  Jule,  starting  up  from  the, table. 

"  Bring  it  over  here  and  I'll  help,"  volunteered 
Ma,  generously. 

As  for  Opal  and  Butch,  they  said  not  a  word, 
but  listened  greedily.  Opal,  for  once,  was  happy ; 
in  fact,  the  whole  family  was  happy,  and  clumsy 
pleasantries  were  exchanged  as  Pa  and  the  boys 
slouched  outdoors  to  rest. 

44 


OPAL'S    HALF-HOLIpAY 

The  air  was  full  of  plans  for  the  picnic,  though 
Labor  Day  was  a  week  off.  Elvie  and  Mandy, 
hearing  the  news,  came  over  to  discuss  the  basket 
dinner,  and  Pa  Flickinger,  sitting  peacefully  on 
the  porch,  helped  out  with  a  word  now  and  then, 
acting  as  an  authentic  encyclopedia,  corrected  to 
date,  on  the  attractions  of  the  resort. 

Ma  Flickinger,  forgetting  the  presentiment  that 
one  of  her  children  would  be  drowned  in  Lake 
Michigan,  stitched  away  on  Jule's  green-striped 
lawn  by  the"  flickering  light  of  a  small,  smudgy 
kerosene  lamp,  a  very  happy  woman  indeed. 
For  life — just  life,  toilsome  as  it  was,  with 
every  one  safe  and  well,  was  not  such  a  bad  thing, 
after  all. 


Ill 

NO    MERRY-GO-ROUNDIN' 

C3OR  DAY  dawned  on  Loretta  Avenue  with 
a  blue  sky  fleeced  over  with  a  diaph 
anous  lace  work  of  white  clouds;  not 
clouds  prophesying  a  storm,  but  cirrus  clouds, 
high  in  the  heavens,  foretelling  a  fine  day. 
Loretta  Avenue,  with  its  faded,  dingy  tene 
ments  and  its  littered  patches  of  front  lawns, 
did  not  seem  improved  by  the  delightful  sweep 
of  azure  and  snowy  fleece  above ;  but,  such  was 
its  degenerate  make-up,  looked  worse  than  ever 
in  contrast  to  the  soft  blue  sky. 

And  although  the  three  wooden  tenement 
houses  stood  as  unmoved  outwardly  as  ever,  yet 
inside  one  of  these  homes  a  very  bedlam  of  dis 
order  reigned;  for  the  storm-centre  was  in  the 
middle  house,  where  Ma  and  Pa  Flickinger  lived. 
It  had  been  so  long  since  the  family  had  gone 
anywhere  together  that  their  preparations  some 
what  resembled  those  attending  the  flight  of  a 

46 


NO    MERRY-GO-ROUNDIN' 

Tartar  tribe.  Ma  Flickinger  was  the  general  of 
the  expedition — the  cook,  the  valet,  the  con 
fidential  friend,  the  base  of  supplies,  and  the  ul 
timate  court  of  appeal — while  Pa,  sandy-haired, 
tall,  and  stooped  from  years  of  hard  work  in  the 
factory,  having  twisted  himself  into  his  black 
Sunday  suit,  could  only  do  what  Ma  directed. 
For  they  were  going  to  the  picnic  at  St.  Joe 
as  they  had  planned.  Not  for  a  moment  had 
they  given  up  the  idea,  though  it  was  for  them  a 
great  undertaking. 

While  Ma  packed  two  baskets  with  provisions 
for  the  picnic  dinner,  Pa  Flickinger  and  his  two 
sons — Bill,  the  autocrat  of  the  family,  and  Jed, 
half-grown,  who  founded  himself  on  Bill — and 
little  Opal  came  and  went  in  all  stages  of  ap 
parel,  jerked  open  reluctant  bureau  drawers, 
pawed  the  contents  wildly  over  without  seeing 
the  things  that  lay  uppermost,  and  hunted  ex 
citedly  in  dark  closets,  and  even  searched  the 
pantry  shelves  and  the  woodshed  for  their  best 
clothes. 

"It  does  seem  to  me  as  if  all  the  duds  we've 
got  is  lost.  Git  out'n  them  bureau  drawers, 
Jed;  a  fool  'd  know  his  shoes  wa'n't  in  there!" 
yelled  Ma,  as  she  hacked  generous  slices  of  bread 
for  sandwiches. 

47 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"Jed's  took  my  best  hair  ribbon  for  a  neck 
tie!"  shrieked  Opal,  appearing  for  a  moment  at 
the  kitchen  door,  her  hair  bristling  about  her 
face  like  the  fibres  of  an  overgrown  brush.  She 
had  braided  her  meagre  topknot  the  night  before 
into  eight  tight  pigtails,  and  now  the  outcome 
was  far  beyond  her  eager  anticipation;  but  it 
was  plainly  visible  that  it  needed  the  restraint 
of  a  hair  ribbon.  "Ma,  make  Jed  give  it  to 
me,"  petitioned  Opal. 

"Here,  take  your  old  string!"  growled  Jed. 
"  I  was  jest  seein'  how  it  looked  while  I  hunted 
for  the  blackin'.  Ma,  where's  my  best  shoes?" 

"I  dunno,"  answered  his  mother,  her  mind 
on  the  dinner;  "seems  to  me  I  saw  'em  on  the 
whatnot  week  afore  last." 

Pa's  clean  socks  were  also  missing.  "You 
come  in  here,"  declared  Ma,  mashing  butter  into 
a  cup,  "  as  if  the  pantry  was  your  regular  dressin'- 
room."  For  Pa  was  standing  meekly  by  with 
his  best  shoes  in  his  hand. 

"Take  your  time,  old  woman,  take  your  time 
— no  hurry."  Pa  spoke  placidly  enough,  but  it 
could  be  seen  at  a  glance  that  his  very  soul  was 
anxious  about  socks. 

"Ma!"  called  the  heavy  bass  voice  of  Bill 
from  the  stairway. 

48' 


NO    MERRY-GO-ROUNDIN' 

"Hey?"  answered  Ma,  absently,  deeply  con 
sidering  whether  she  ought  to  cut  the  lemon 
pies  now  or  wait  till  dinner-time.  "If  they're 
cut  now  they'll  drip,"  she  said,  thinking  aloud. 
"  But  if  I  don't  cut  'em — and  there  never  is  no 
knife  at  a  picnic — then  the  boys  '11  claw  'em  to 
pieces,  and  there  won't  be  enough  to  go  'round." 

"My  jack-knife  ain't  been  out'n  my  pocket 
for  the  last  ten  year — that  cuts  summat,"  sug 
gested  Pa;  then  he  asked:  "Could  them  socks 
be  in  the  clothes-basket?" 

"That's  jest  where  they  be;  git  'em  onto 
yourself,  and  then  hunt  up  a  white  collar ;  you've 
got  one  somewheres — you  make  me  nervous! 
Lemme  see,  what  was  I  worryin'  about?  Oh 
yes,  a  knife — " 

"My  jack-knife  ain't  been  out'n — "  began  Pa, 
returning  with  so  radiant  a  face  that  Ma  knew 
he  had  found  his  clean  socks. 

"I  can't  afford  to  lose  this  butcher-knife — 
it's  the  only  thing  in  the  house  that  cuts;  yes, 
we'll  use  your  jack-knife." 

"Ma!  Can't  you  hear  nothin'?"  yelled  Bill, 
in  stentorian  tones.  He  was  the  eldest  son,  and 
his  pampered  soul  could  not  easily  brook  delay. 

"Yes,  Billie,  in  a  minute,"  answered  his  moth 
er;  "I'm  puttin'  up  the  lunch." 

49 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"Come  now!"  shouted  Bill.  "I  want  to  ast 
you  somethin'." 

"I'm  busy;  spit  it  out." 

"Anybody  down  there?"  questioned  her  six- 
foot  son  cautiously,  having  a  request  to  make 
that  could  not  be  aired  before  the  whole  family. 

"Nobody  down  here  but  me  and  your  Pa  and 
Jed  and  Opal — no,  there  ain't  nobody  here." 

"  Come  to  the  stairway  a  minute.  Oh,  hustle 
up !' '  ordered  Bill.  Worn  out  by  his  importunity, 
Ma  went  to  get  rid  of  him. 

Bill  stood  half-way  down  the  narrow  stairs, 
holding  at  arm's-length  a  fire-red  necktie,  and  a 
green  one,  sprinkled  with  purple  stars. 

"Which?"  he  inquired,  mysteriously. 

"Which  what?"  snapped  Ma.  "We  won't  git 
over  to  St.  Joe  till  doomsday  if  we  fool  around 
so." 

"Which  tie  shall  I  wear?  Sophie  sorter  likes 
the  red  one,  but  she's  never  saw  the  green — 
it's  a  beaut!" 

"Put't  on.  You  look  like  a  speckled  pig! 
Take  't  off.  Wear  the  red  one,  Billie ;  that's  jest 
enough  color  to  set  you  off." 

Ma  went  back  smiling,  to  think  that  Bill  cared 
for  her  advice  on  so  delicate  a  matter  as  pleasing 
his  girl.  For  Sophie  Budzbanowsky  had  been 

50 


NO    MERRY-GO-ROUNDIN' 

invited  to  eat  dinner  with  the  family  that  day; 
and  although  she  and  Bill  had  been  "going  to 
gether"  for  some  time,  they  had  never  seen  her. 

"Who's  got  the  shoe-blackin' ?"  yelled  Bill, 
still  on  the  stairs. 

"Jed;  and  he  won't  let  me  black  my  shoes," 
returned  Opal.  "I  found  it  first." 

"Shut  up!"  snarled  Jed,  who  treated  his  little 
sister  in  the  same  manly  fashion  that  Bill  treated 
him. 

"Shut  up,  yourself,"  roared  Pa;  "no  cater- 
waulin,'  or  neither  of  you  don't  go  to  St.  Joe." 

"You  kids  hand  that  blackin'  over  to  me  or 
git  cuffed,"  threatened  Bill. 

"Take  Billie  the  shoe-blackin',  Opal,"  sup 
plemented  Ma,  fearing  a  scene  with  her  high 
handed  son. 

"Bill  gits  ornerier  every  day,"  grumbled  Pa. 

Just  then  Milo,  Jule's  husband,  tapped  on  the 
screen  door  with  a  modest  knuckle,  and  said: 

"She  wants  the  shoe-blackin',  if  youse  have 
got  any." 

"Jest  a  minute,  Milo,"  called  Bill,  genially, 
from  the  parlor,  where  he  had  been  polishing  his 
shoes  with  one  great  foot  on  the  lowest  shelf  of 
the  whatnot. 

"I  ain't  blacked  yit,"  growled  Jed. 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"Me  neither,"  echoed  Opal. 

"It's  only  my  shoes,  anyhow,"  apologized 
Jule's  husband,  with  his  habitual  mildness;  "let 
'em  go." 

"Why,  no,"  cried  Bill,  cordially;  "don't  be  a 
slouch  jest  because  you're  married.  Come  in, 
and  I'll  shine  'em  up  for  you."  And  Bill  gra 
ciously  smeared  Milo's  weather-worn  gaiters  with 
a  thin  wash  of  blacking.  "  Now  go  home  and  git 
Jule  to  shine  'em  up  with  an  old  woolen  rag,  and 
you'll  look  as  slick  as  anything  goin'." 

Milo  carefully  made  his  way  down  the  street, 
walking  mostly  on  his  heels  with  an  uncomfort 
able  sense  of  blackened  shoes,  to  the  dingy  tene 
ment  where  he  lived  in  such  connubial  bliss  as  he 
could  with  Bill's  strenuous  sister  Jule. 

"Black  me,  Bill,"  petitioned  Jed,  when  Milo 
was  gone. 

"Me,  too,"  demanded  Opal. 

"Well,  I  gues  not;  your  brother  ain't  no  boot 
black;  git  out!"  He  could  be  very  pleasant  to 
grown-up  people  or  to  company,  but  even  civility 
to  Jed  and  Opal  was  seldom  compatible  with  his 
lordliness. 

"Lemme  in!"  shouted  a  small  boy,  pulling 
frantically  at  the  screen  door. 

Opal  hastily  admitted  Butch.     Once  inside  he 
52 


NO    MERRY-GO-ROUNDIN' 

began  to  wail  with  noisy  and  preconceived 
earnestness. 

"What  ails  you,  Butch?"  inquired  Pa. 

Butch  blubberingly  replied  that  company  had 
just  come  from  Indiana  on  an  excursion,  so  that 
his  mother  could  not  go  to  the  picnic,  and,  what 
was  worse,  he  himself  could  not  go. 

"Ain't  that  provokin'!"  exclaimed  Ma.  "El- 
vie's  folks  can't  go  neither  on  account  of  Beu- 
lah's  bein'  exposed  to  the  measles,  and  now 
Mandy  .is  goin'  to  be  kept  to  home.  We  might 
take  Butch;  what  say,  Pa?" 

"Couldn't  keep  Butch  out'n  Lake  Michigan; 
he's  the  worst  there  is,"  declared  Pa.  Where 
upon  Butch  became  inconsolable. 

"I  wanter  see  Bill's  Budzbanowsky,"  sniffed 
Butch.  This  was  his  way  of  referring  to  Bill's 
girl,  Sophie  Budzbanowsky. 

"Shut  that  up,  kid,"  commanded  Bill,  secretly 
pleased.  "Of  course  you  can  go.  Your  Uncle 
Bill  '11  see  that  you  don't  fall  into  the  drink.  I'll 
look  out  for  Butch,  Ma." 

Butch  ran  home  to  get  ready,  recognizing  in 
Bill  a  royal  patron  whose  word  was  law  in  the 
family. 

By  slow  degrees  the  Flickingers  donned  their 
best  clothes,  and  at  nine  o'clock  crowded  into 
s  53 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

the  front  room  to  wait  for  Ma,  who  was  in  the 
bedroom  laboriously  jerking  on  her  black  alpaca, 
which  had  not  been  worn  for  years;  and  al 
though  Ma  Flickinger  was  thin,  the  dress  seemed 
to  have  shrunk  since  it  was  made  more  than  she, 
and  went  on  awkwardly,  as  if  it  resented  being 
worn  again. 

Jule  had  come  over,  resplendent  in  her  new 
striped  green  lawn,  which  she  had  not  had  time 
to  launder,  but  which  hung  limp  and  wrinkled 
on  her  spare  figure.  Her  hat  was  of  red  straw, 
with  flaring  red  bows.  And  Jule  felt  that  she 
was  correctly  dressed  for  once.  Her  twin  babies, 
Janice  and  Jasper,  were  arrayed  in  open-work 
lace  hoods,  and  long,  soiled  white  woollen  cloaks. 

"  For  the  land  sakes,  Jule,  you'll  smother  them 
babies!"  cried  Ma,  catching  sight  of  the  twins 
through  a  crack  in  the  door.  "Whatever  pos 
sessed  you  to  bunch  'em  up  in  heavy  cloaks  on  a 
hot  day  like  this?"  . 

"Their  white  dresses  are  dirty,  so  I  jest  cov 
ered  'em  up,"  answered  Jule.  "  It  wouldn't  pay 
to  wash  'em  afore  we  go  to  the  picnic,  'cause  we 
wouldn't  be  there  two  minutes  till  they'd  be  all 
gaumed  up  ag'in." 

Milo  was  there,  tending  Janice  and  Jasper  on 
the  broken-down  lounge,  a  long,  yellow  June 

54 


NO    MERRY-GO-ROUNDIN' 

grass  straw  in  his  mouth  to  keep  him  company 
on  the  expedition. 

And  Butch  was  there,  almost  unrecognizable, 
for  he  was  as  effectually  disguised  as  if  gotten 
up  for  the  purpose.  His  face  and  hands  had 
been  soaked  and  scrubbed,  his  ears  were  immacu 
late  and  rose-red ;  for  his  mother  had  not  spared 
the  soap  to  spoil  the  child.  Although  the  day 
was  warm,  and  threatened  to  be  a  replication  of 
its  August  brethren,  Butch  had  on  his  salt-and- 
pepper  suit,  whose  stuffy  little  coat  was  so  tight 
that  his  mother  had  had  to  fasten  the  reluctant 
buttons  with  a  hook.  Besides,  he  wore  shoes 
and  stockings,  and  a  new  black  felt  hat.  He  was 
as  smothered  and  uncomfortable  as  was  possible 
without  actually  being  buried  alive;  but  his 
heart  danced  for  joy  under  his  salt-and-pepper 
vest,  so  great  was  his  anticipation. 

Opal  for  once  wore  her  best  dress,  which  she 
had  nearly  outgrown;  it  was  a  wine-colored 
worsted,  and  lined.  Over  her  flying  hair  she 
had  pinned  her  flopping  straw  hat,  whose  faded, 
wobbly  roses  drooped  ungracefully  on  their  wire 
stems.  But  Opal  was  delighted,  because  she 
had  a  chance  to  wear  her  best  clothes. 

Jed  felt  as  awkward  as  he  looked  in  his  new 
suit,  which  had  been  bought  much  too  large, 

55 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

with  an  eye  to  the  future.  For  once  the  boy's 
ankles  and  wrists  were  completely  covered,  but 
he  had  an  uneasy  sense  of  sinking  out  of  sight 
behind  the  bulging  lapels  of  his  coat.  He  wore 
a  paper  collar  and  a  wilted  pink  tie,  and  had  a 
dismal  air  of  wishing  himself  anywhere  but  the 
place  he  was  in.  He  was  at  that  transition 
period  of  his  life  when  he  already  considered 
himself  a  man,  but  still  acted  like  a  little  boy. 
In  old  his  clothes  he  would  have  seemed  natural, 
but  in  his  new  suit  he  looked  neglected  and  forlorn. 

"I've  got  a  word  to  say  afore  we  start,"  an 
nounced  Pa,  raising  his  voice  formally  to  ad 
dress  the  assembled  family,  as  Ma  was  putting 
the  finishing  touches  to  her  hurried  dressing  in 
the  bedroom.  "We're  poor  folks,  and  can't 
spend  no  fortune  on  this  picnic ;  so  you  kids  cut 
out  the  teasin'  for  the  things  you  won't  git. 
The  boss  of  the  factory  he  pays  the  car-fare, 
and  your  Ma,  she's  looked  after  the  dinner.  So 
far — good.  But  now  I'm  comin'  to  them  there 
attractions  at  the  resort  that  ain't  so  good  for 
us — leastways  for  our  pocketbooks. 

"I've  got  a  little  spare  change,"  went  on  Pa, 
"and  I  suppose  you  boys  have,  so  if  anything 
should  happen.  But  we  ain't  a-goin'  to  spend 
it  on  nonsense.  Everybody  hear  that?  No 

56 


NO    MERRY-GO-ROUNDIN' 

merry-go-roundin',  no  tintypin',  no  paddlin'  in 
the  lake  and  drowndin'  in  a  hole — no  foolish 
ness  whatever.  All  mind  your  Ma;  look  sharp 
for  pickpockets;  keep  your  hats  on  your  heads, 
and  remember  you've  got  on  your  best  clothes. 
And  we'll  all  keep  together,  avoidin'  merry-go- 
rounds  and  things  afore  mentioned,  and  I  guess 
we'll  come  home  right  side  up. 

"But" — here  Pa  smiled  and  gave  a  sigh  of 
relief  to  think  his  lecture,  in  which  Ma  had 
privately  instructed  him,  was  over — "  we'll  all 
ride  on  that  there  baby  railroad  that  ain't 
more'n  half  as  big  as  a  real. one,  and  that's  about 
all  the  dissipation  we  can  stand  in  one  day 
— that  and  the  dinner." 

All  listened  respectfully  to  Pa's  ultimatum, 
except  Bill,  who  grinned  and  said:  "Sorry,  Pa, 
but  I  couldn't  keep  to  your  little  old  programme 
for  five  minutes — it  wouldn't  do." 

"Well,  Billie,  I  dunno  as  'twould,"  gave  in 
Pa,  good-naturedly,  "seein'  you've  got  sixty- 
five  cents  to  burn;  besides,  you've  got  to  treat 
your  girl,  Sophie  Budz  —  Budz-ban-whatsky — 
like  a  gent  ought ;  but  the  rest  of  us,  we've  got 
our  work  cut  out." 

"Look  at  Bill!"  cried  Jule,  catching  sight  of 
her  brother's  green  tie. 

57 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"What's  wrong?"  demanded  Bill,  involun 
tarily  putting  his  hand  on  the  dazzling  glass 
ladybug  that  was  pastured  on  the  green  and 
purple  meadows  of  his  new  cravat. 

"Nothin's  wrong,"  giggled  Jule. 

' '  Out  with  it !' '  roared  Bill.  ' '  What's  wrong  ?" 
He  and  Jule  had  many  a  wordy  battle  to  their 
credit;  for  Jule,  unlike  the  rest  of  the  family, 
did  not  look  up  to  Bill. 

"It's  so  green,"  tittered  Jule. 

"What  of  that?"  growled  Bill. 

"And  you're  so  green,"  answered  Jule,  con 
clusively. 

Bill  certainly  was,  so  he  resented  the  remark 
royally,  as  the  petted  scion  of  the  house  of 
Flickinger  naturally  would. 

"I  declare  I  didn't  know  as  this  family  could 
turn  out  such  a  stylish  outfit!"  exclaimed  Ma, 
as  they  started  down  the  street  toward  the  car- 
line. 

Opal  and  Butch  danced  along,  hand  in  hand; 
and  for  once  Butch  was  not  cross  to  Opal.  As 
for  Opal,  she  could  scarcely  believe  her  senses: 
to  think  that  Ma  and  Pa  and  nearly  the  whole 
family  were  really  going  to  a  picnic  together, 
dressed  in  their  best  clothes  and  their  dinner  in 
baskets,  just  like  other  people!  And  she  felt  a 

58 


NO    MERRY-GO-ROUNDIN' 

little  sorry  for  the  neighbors  because  they  were 
not  going,  too ;  and  she  seemed  to  be  miles  and 
miles  removed  from  Fairy  Jones,  who  hung  over 
the  front  gate  and  gave  Opal  a  wide-eyed  "  hello." 

Butch  could  scarcely  be  kept  to  earth,  so 
volcanic  was  his  joy  when  he  saw  the  street-car, 
that  wonderful  horseless  chariot  that  he  had 
looked  at  from  a  distance  with  devouring  eyes 
but  had  never  been  aboard. 

"Fares,"  said  the  conductor,  when  they  were 
all  safely  seated  in  the  street-car. 

"Fares!"  echoed  Pa,  with  a  stare;  "the  boss 
he  pays  for  this  ride." 

"This  ain't  the  picnic  car.  Git  off  or  pay," 
returned  the  conductor,  sharply. 

"We  git  off,"  decided  Pa. 

Butch  thought  that  was  all  there  was  going 
to  be  of  the  ride.  "  Can't  we  go,  Aunt  Jule  ?"  he 
asked,  as  they  were  climbing  off  the  car. 

"  It  don't  look  like  it,"  snapped  Jule. 

"I  go  right  on!"  sang  out  Bill,  and  paid  his 
fare  and  sailed  away. 

"That's  a  nice  way  for  Bill  to  take  care  of 
Butch,"  grumbled  Ma. 

"When  did  Bill  ever  do  what  he  said  he 
would?"  inquired  Jule,  tartly. 

"I  dunno  but  what  we're  on  a  fool  chase," 
59 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

worried  Ma.  "I  always  was  afraid  of  Lake 
Michigan;  I  don't  feel  jest  right  about  takin' 
Butchie  over  there.  I'd  go  back  home  for  a 
penny.  What  say,  Pa?" 

"I  say  wait  a  bit,"  advised  Pa;  "there'll  be 
another  car  along." 

"But  how  '11  we  know  it's  our'n?"  asked  Ma, 
anxiously. 

"Probably  it  '11  have  a  banner  on  it  sayin' 
'Picnic  Car,'"  suggested  Milo. 

"Probably  it  won't,"  contradicted  Jule,  cross 
ly.  "I  don't  suppose  we'll  git  to  go.  I  never 
do  go  nowheres!" 

But  the  very  next  car  bore  the  welcome  tid 
ings  on  a  huge  sign  that  it  was  reserved  for  the 
factory  crowd. 

"  Here  she  is!"  cried  Pa,  as  if  he  had  chartered 
the  car  himself. 

Milo  hailed  with  a  relaxed  palm,  Pa  hailed 
with  a  lusty  arm,  and  Jule  hailed  with  Janice 
for  a  signal.  And  Butch's  face,  which  had  been 
puckered  into  a  dismal  knot  during  the  enforced 
wait,  gradually  unpuckered  itself  after  they 
were  aboard  the  car,  while  he  held  on  to  his  hat 
with  both  hands  and  breathed  in  long,  deep 
breaths  of  pure  joy  as  the  bell  tinkled  alluringly 
and  the  bobbing  houses  shunted  by. 

60 


NO    MERRY-GO-ROUNDIN' 

The  open  car  fairly  flew  across  the  marshes 
between  the  two  towns,  rumbled  up  the  long 
viaduct  over  the  puffing  steam-engines,  of  which 
Butch  caught  wonderful  glimpses.  And  when 
they  passed  the  jail,  red  brick  and  barred,  Pa 
Flickinger  leaned  over  and  warned  Butch  to 
look  sharp  or  they'd  "git  him,"  and  Jule  told 
Janice  and  Jasper  that  there  was  where  they 
put  the  "naughty,  naughty  mans." 

And  when  Butch  thought  they  were  yet  miles 
away,  the  car  stopped  near  two  great  hotels 
beside  a  little  park  that  was  bright  with  flowers 
and  shaded  by  rows  of  elms,  and  already  gay 
with  picnickers.  A  pretty  fountain  sparkled  in 
the  sun,  and  below  the  bluff  lay  the  calm,  wide- 
spreading  waters  of  Lake  Michigan. 

Butch  had  never  before  seen  the  lake  nor  a 
fountain,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he 
was  in  fairyland.  He  was  so  dazed  that  Pa 
Flickinger  had  to  lift  him  bodily  from  the  car 
and  set  him  on  his  feet,  for  they  were  in  St. 
Joe ;  and  though  Butch  still  had  his  hat,  of  which 
he  had  never  once  let  go,  he  had  lost  forever  his 
respect  for  Old  Man  Snather's  dingy  brick  house 
on  Loretta  Avenue. 

The  family  had  been  sitting  on  a  park  seat 
but  a  few  minutes  when  Bill  Flickinger  and 

61 


PA   FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

Sophie  Budzbanowsky  came  up.  Bill  led  the 
girl  straight  to  Ma  and  said,  "Mis'  Flickinger, 
Miss  Budzbanowsky,"  and  felt  that  he  had 
done  the  correct  thing. 

Sophie  Budzbanowsky  was  a  neatly  dressed, 
good-looking  Polish  girl  of  eighteen;  she  was 
not  positively  pretty,  but  she  was  better  than 
that — she  was  good.  Sophie  worked  in  the  knit 
ting  factory  that  crouched  like  a  huge,  black 
monster  on  the  sands  below  the  park,  and  so 
far  she  considered  Bill  perfection. 

The  family  had  rather  dreaded  getting  ac 
quainted  with  Sophie,  thinking  that  she  might 
put  on  airs ;  but  she  was  so  pleasant  and  seemed 
so  glad  to  see  them  that  they  had  not  been 
talking  together  for  five  minutes  till  they  were 
sure  that  they  were  going  to  like  Sophie.  And 
Ma  remarked  privately  to  Jule  that  she  didn't 
see  how  Bill  ever  happened  to  get  such  a  nice 
little  thing;  but  Jule  replied  that  it  was  only 
because  Sophie  didn't  know  Bill — he  had  always 
had  on  his  company  manners  with  her. 

"I  hope  we  don't  set  on  a  bench  all  day," 
observed  Ma. 

"No  law  ag'in  movin'  on,"  grinned  Pa. 

"You  sure  must  see  Silver  Beach,"  declared 
Sophie. 

62 


NO    MERRY-GO-ROUNDIN' 

"We  can't  see  it  if  we  set  here,"  said  Bill, 
genially,  and  rose  and  conducted  them  to  the 
lake. 

Butch,  being  in  a  foreign  country,  clung  close 
ly  to  Opal's  hand  as  they  made  their  way  down 
the  bluff  and  through  the  deep,  white  sand  to 
where  a  huge  pavilion  spread  its  wing-like  roofs 
beside  the  waves,  while  toboggan  slides,  a 
miniature  railroad,  a  noisy  merry-go-round,  and 
kindred  attractions  allured  the  public.  Beyond 
Silver  Beach,  which  was  already  thronged  with 
people,  lay  the  lake,  a  rippling  semicircle  of 
sparkling  blue. 

"The  lake  don't  look  a  bit  mean,"  commented 
Ma,  who  always  thought  of  it  as  a  devastating 
element,  lashing  the  beach  and  devouring  inno 
cent  children. 

"No,  it  looks  smooth;  but  it  'd  gobble  up  a 
young  one  quick  enough  if  it  took  a  notion," 
asserted  Jule,  who  seemed  to  have  a  standing 
grudge  against  everything  in  life. 

"  I  had  an  idee  that  the  lake  was  generally 
rough,"  observed  Ma;  "but,  land!  how  pretty 
it  looks;  kinder  restful,  'pears  like." 

"Still,  it's  treacherous.  I  wouldn't  trust  any 
of  these  here  big  lakes  when  my  back  was 
turned."  And  Pa  shook  his  head  disparagingly. 

63 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

Bill  soon  trailed  off  with  Sophie,  remarking 
that  they  would  be  back  by  dinner-time. 

"The  first  thing — and  the  last  thing,  remem 
ber — on  our  programme  to-day,"  announced  Pa, 
"is  a  ride  on  the  baby  railroad.  All  hands  pike 
that  way." 

All  hands  willingly  piked,  and  in  three  minutes 
they  were  seated  in  the  small  compartments  be 
hind  the  little  engine  that  dragged  its  heavy 
load  of  picnickers  around  a  none  too  steady 
track,  which  made  an  uneven  circle  in  the  sand. 

Butch  was  so  delighted  that  he  scarcely 
touched  the  seat,  but  vibrated  on  the  edge  like 
a  mechanical  toy  with  a  wobbly  spring.  Opal 
leaned  back  in  placid  enjoyment;  for  once  there 
was  no  baby  to  tend.  Milo  and  Jule  each 
had  a  twin,  leaving  Ma  Flickinger  free,  with 
nothing  to  do  but  fold  her  hands  and  rest.  And 
Jed  was  trying  to  look  as  unconcerned  as  he 
thought  Bill  would  look  under  like  circumstances ; 
but  Jed  was  a  poor  actor,  and  could  not  help 
showing  that  he  was  intensely  enjoying  himself. 

"A  continually  goin'  'round  and  'round  like 
this  gives  a  feller  a  sort  of  lazy,  good-for-nothin' 
feelin',"  said  Pa,  luxuriously. 

Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  this  general  con 
tentment,  the  engine  coughed,  made  several 

64 


NO    MERRY-GO-ROUNDIN' 

uncertain  lunges,  and  then  came  to  a  standstill. 
And  no  amount  of  coaxing  on  the  part  of  the 
engineer  affected  the  balking  steam-horse. 

"I  know  summat  about  machinery,"  ventured 
Pa,  modestly,  climbing  over  the  side  of  the  car 
to  investigate;  "let  me  take  a  squint." 

With  his  family  proudly  looking  on,  Pa  found 
what  caused  the  trouble,  corrected  it,  and  the 
engine  was  soon  puffing  reluctantly  around  the 
track  again. 

"What  'd  you  do?"  inquired  Ma. 

"Nothin'  much,  jest  tinkered."  Pa  spoke 
easily,  but  his  assumed  humility  was  the  very 
acme  of  pride. 

"You  and  your  folks  git  extra  rides  for  helpin' 
me  out!"  called  the  engineer,  and  they  rode  on 
and  on ;  while  Pa,  having  earned  additional  rides 
in  so  neat  a  manner,  began  to  criticise  the  road 
and  tell  Milo  how  it  might  be  improved. 

When  at  last  they  willingly  left  the  baby  rail 
road,  it  seemed  as  if  they  had  been  riding  for 
hours.  But  they  were  caught  in  another  lure 
farther  down  the  board-walk.  It  was  the  merry- 
go-round,  and  its  jangling  music  ground  out  a 
catchy  tune  as  the  family  neared  it,  while  the 
gay  animals  flew  by  with  giddy  speed. 

For  some  time  they  stood  in  a  little  group, 
65 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

mutely  admiring  the  prohibited  attraction;  then 
the  twins,  Janice  and  Jasper,  stretched  out  fat 
arms,  asking  in  inarticulate  but  unmistakable 
baby  talk  for  a  ride. 

Pa  Flickinger  silently  withdrew  from  the 
family,  motioning  for  Milo  to  follow. 

"Them  kids  of  yourn  are  crazy  for  a  turn  on 
the  merry-go-round,"  said  Pa. 

"My  kids  is  stuck  on  the  thing,"  admitted 
Milo,  his  own  eyes  helplessly  glued  on  the  re 
volving  hobby-horses. 

The  miniature  railroad  had  been  as  a  sip  of 
inspiriting  liquor  to  Pa,  creating  a  desire  for 
more  and  swifter  locomotion.  "As  a  rule,  I'm 
dead  ag'in  merry-go-roundin'  in  any  form,"  he 
affirmed;  "but  if  I've  got  the  change  I'll  take 
us  all." 

Jule,  who  had  edged  near,  nudged  her  husband, 
saying,  "Pay  your  share,  Milo." 

So  in  a  happy  dream  the  eager  children  and 
babies  were  bundled  with  their  elders  on  the 
gaudy  animals  for  a  number  of  dizzying  revo 
lutions. 

It  seemed  to  Opal,  on  this  wonderful  day,  that 
life  had  turned  squarely  around,  and  that  while 
before  she  had  gotten  more  disagreeable  things 
than  she  had  wanted,  that  she  was  now  coming  in 

66 


NO    MERRY-GO-ROUNDIN' 

for  more  joy  than  she  had  expected.  As  for 
Butch,  he  was  so  jubilant  that  nothing  but  his 
little  salt-and-pepper  suit  held  his  soul  and  body 
together  as  they  whirred  'round  and  'round  on 
the  enchanting  animals. 

"You  look  as  blue  as  a  pancake,  old  woman," 
observed  Pa,  when  they  had  finished  the  ride. 

"It  was  ruther  dizzyin',''  admitted  Ma;  "but, 
land!  what's  the  difference?  I  liked  it  jest  the 
same." 

"  I  had  to  give  them  twinses  a  turn,  you  know," 
apologized  Pa,  as  if  the  ride  had  been  nothing 
to  him. 

"I  ain't  been  so  tired  in  a  year,"  declared  Ma, 
cheerfully,  as  they  sat  down  in  the  sand  in  the 
shade  of  the  pavilion  to  rest.  "Jule,  yank  off 
them  twinses'  coats;  their  faces  are  redder'n  a 
beet."  Relieved  of  these  arctic  coverings,  the 
babies  were  good  at  once  and  began  playing  in 
the  sand. 

And  Butch,  darting  about  in  a  fine  frenzy  of 
animal  spirits,  first  threw  his  hat  into  his  grand 
mother's  lap,  next  his  pepper-and-salt  coat, 
later  his  vest,  and  after  that  he  took  off  his  shoes 
and  stockings,  gradually  getting  back  to  first 
principles,  till,  with  dirty  hands  and  face,  he  was 
once  more  the  Butch  they  knew  at  home. 

67 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

The  dinner,  which  was  eaten  in  the  shade  of 
the  pavilion,  was  the  crowning  success  of  the 
day;  for  besides  the  good  things  to  eat,  there 
were  Sophie  Budzbanowsky  and  Bill,  adding  to 
the  prosaic  life  of  the  family  the  glamour  of  their 
budding  romance. 

"Who  gits  this  liver?"  inquired  Ma,  not  will 
ing  to  have  the  whole  responsibility  of  distrib 
uting  the  chicken. 

"I  could  eat  it,"  answered  Pa,  whose  choice  it 
was,  "but  let  Miss  Budz — budz — have  it." 

"If  I  git  a  wing  I  ask  no  better,"  declared 
Sophie.  "The  liver  I  never  saw  much  in." 

Pa  got  the  liver. 

"Me  for  the  gizzard,"  petitioned  Bill;  but  so 
great  was  his  devotion  to  Sophie  at  this  period 
of  their  courtship  that  he  insisted  on  sharing  it 
with  her,  though  Sophie  did  not  care  for  it,  and 
only  ate  to  please  him. 

"Drumsticks  for  the  twinses,  Ma,"  demanded 
Jule. 

"Shucks,  Jule,  they're  too  little  for  drum 
sticks.  I'll  give  'em  some  white  meat.  Opal 
and  Jed  git  the  drumsticks."  But  Opal  gener 
ously  shared  hers  with  the  twins. 

"Milo  and  Jule,  what '11  you  have?" 

"A  pretty  time  to  ask  now!"  grumbled  Jule, 
68 


NO    MERRY-GO-ROUNDIN' 

"when  it's  all  gone.  Give  me  a  decent -sized 
piece  of  the  breast.  Milo  don't  care  what  part 
he  eats." 

"Butchie  gits  the  piece  with  the  wishbone, 
and  that  leaves  me  the  neck,"  smiled  Ma,  "  which 
is  my  favorite  pickin'.  Everybody  help  your 
self  to  biscuits  and  butter;  nobody  gits  his  paws 
onto  lemon  pie  till  he  eats  somethin'  sensible." 

"Pa,  gimme  your  jack-knife,"  demanded  Ma, 
when  it  was  time  to  cut  the  lemon  pies. 

"My  knife — "  Pa  felt  in  his  pocket,  felt  in 
all  his  pockets,  then  turned  very  red. 

"Spit  it  out!"  snapped  Ma.  "Where's  your 
knife?" 

"Home — in  my  old  clothes,"  admitted  Pa, 
crestfallen. 

"There  never  is  no  knife  at  a  picnic,"  ob 
served  Ma,  with  settled  pessimism.  "  Land,  Jule, 
what '11  I  do  with  these  here  pies?"  Every  one 
looked  on  with  bated  breath,  and  the  babies  be 
gan  to  crow  for  their  share. 

Sophie  Budzbanowsky  silently  slipped  some 
thing  into  Pa's  hand. 

Now  Pa,  on  a  holiday,  was  not  slow  to  make 
a  joke.  Clearing  his  voice,  he  grinningly  an 
nounced,  "I've  found  my  knife." 

A  sigh  of  relief,  audible  above  the  gentle  mur- 

6  69 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

mur  of  Lake  Michigan,  went  up  from  the  waiting 
family. 

Pa  held  up  a  small  penknife  that  Sophie  had 
lent  him,  which  had  been  bought  for  her  by  Bill 
as  a  souvenir  of  the  day. 

"If  it  only  could  do!"  said  Sophie,  anxiously. 

"Of  course  it'll  do,"  answered  Ma,  delighted, 
and  began  snipping  at  the  pie. 

After  dinner  they  started  out  again  to  see  the 
sights,  and  tintype  galleries  fairly  yawned  with 
hungry  jaws  as  they  went  down  the  board 
walk. 

;'Oh,  how  I'd  like  a  picture  of  the  babies!" 
remarked  Sophie,  who  was  walking  between  Pa 
and  Bill. 

This  touched  Pa.  "I'd  like  a  picter  of  the 
little  rats,  too,"  he  responded. 

"Let's  have  'em  took,"  suggested  Bill,  wish 
ing  to  play  the  liberal  lover.  "  I'll  pay." 

"If  we  ever  did  anything  like  other  folks,  we'd 
have  ourselves  all  took  in  a  group,"  observed 
Jule,  after  the  babies'  pictures  were  finished. 

Then  Pa,  who  had  until  that  time  steadfastly 
kept  up  the  fiction  that  he  was  protecting  his 
family  from  too  much  merry-go-rounding  and 
from  all  tintyping,  came  out  in  his  true  colors, 
counted  his  loose  change,  conferred  a  moment 

70 


NO    MERRY-GO-ROUNDIN' 

with  Ma,  and  boldly  proclaimed  that  he  would 
pay  for  pictures  for  the  whole  gang. 

The  photographer  worked  quickly,  huddling 
the  family  into  a  ragged  group  that  overflowed 
at  the  edges;  but  every  one  was  taken  entire 
except  Jed,  who  was  represented  only  by  a  por 
tion  of  an  empty-looking  sleeve. 

This  was  particularly  bitter  to  Jed,  when 
Sophie  remarked:  "Oh,  Billie,  what  a  shame 
your  brother  is  not  all  there!" 

"About  as  much  as  you  generally  see  of  Jed 
when  he's  got  his  best  suit  on,"  returned  Bill, 
unfeelingly. 

The  Flickingers  were  by  this  time  demoralized 
into  a  regular  picnic  crowd  out  for  a  good  time, 
trailing  happily  along,  joking  and  laughing.  In 
stinctively  they  made  toward  the  merry-go- 
round,  and  again  Pa  disengaged  himself  from 
his  folks  and  crooked  a  suggestive  finger  at  Milo. 

"Mebbe  the  children 'd  like  another  ride," 
hinted  Pa;  "and  it  'd  be  nice  to  have  Miss 
Budz — Budz — Bill's  girl  go  with  us." 

Milo  cheerfully  counted  his  change,  and  handed 
it  all  over  to  Pa  with  an  appreciative  grin.  Pa 
added  his  money  to  Milo's,  and  said  that  there 
was  just  enough  to  give  them  all  a  ride. 

"I  dunno,"  hesitated  Pa,  "but  what  it  looks 


PA   FLICKINGER'S   FOLKS 

foolish  to  spend  our  last  cent.    We've  rid  on  the 

-  £are  home'"  encouraged 


MU°I£    summat    should    happen^  argued    Pa, 
weakly,   "a   fit*   money   wouldnt 


thing."  v,ar,oen  i£  you  ain't  got  no 

-Nothin'  can\h,apPT^e    WL  had  been  lis- 
change,"   interrupted  Jule, 

tening"  then'"   shouted   Pa,   recklessly. 

"Here  goes,  tnen.^ 
-All  hands  come  on.  making  a  joke 

They  went  gayly,  J™ 

about  riding  on  *e«  ^?the  fair  thing  by 
"I  thought  f'^j^ea  to  Ma,  "seein' 
Butch"  Pa  PHcfanger  expL 
we'd  fetched  him  along.'  ^   rotmd 

As   they   dismounted   from  ^ 

dazed   and   "Jrt  the  water': 


J*Butchr  shrieked  M,"  Who  lu 
him  on  the  merry-go-round 


NO    MERRY-GO-ROUNDIN' 

The  family  stared  blankly  at  one  another. 
Nobody  had  had  Butch. 

"It's  Butch  that's  drowned,"  said  Bill,  with 
solemn  bluntness.  "Break  away,  there!"  he 
growled  to  the  crowd,  "  and  let  his  folks 
through!" 

"I  might  'a'  knowed  better  than  to  take 
Butch,"  moaned  Ma,  wildly.  "I  always  said 
some  of  our  family  would  git  drowned  in  Lake 
Michigan!" 

"I  ain't  drowned,  Gramma,"  sniffed  Butch, 
suddenly  sitting  up  at  the  sound  of  her  voice. 
He  had  only  dropped  into  a  few  inches  of  water 
from  the  railing  of  the  pavilion,  and  had  been 
pulled  out  so  quickly  that  he  was  scarcely  wet ; 
but  seeing  the  strange  faces  about  him,  he  had 
been  too  frightened  at  first  to  speak  or  move. 

"You  ought  to  be  cuffed!"  cried  Ma,  angrily, 
wiping  her  eyes.  "What 'd  you  go  and  fall  into 
the  water  for  ?  And  what  'd  you  run  away  from 
us  for?  Bill,  you  promised  to  look  after  Butch." 

"  I  had  my  eye  on  him — off  and  on — all  day," 
answered  Bill,  soberly. 

"Particularly  off.  I'd  ruther  have  a  n'ele- 
phant  tend  the  twinses  than  Bill!"  scolded  Jule. 

"And  a  n'elephant 'd  ruther  do  it,"  retorted 
her  offended  brother. 

73 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"  This  has  been  a  day  without  a  blot,"  moralized 
Pa,  as  they  started  home  a  little  later,  "barrin' 
Butchie's  mishap.  We  didn't  exactly  carry  out 
the  programme  that  was  laid  down,"  he  ad 
mitted,  "about  no  merry-go-roundin,'  and  such 
like;  but  you  know,  Ma,  circumstances  alter 
folks,  summat." 


IV 

BILL'S    BUDZBANOWSKY 

I  DECLARE  to  goodness,"  cried  Ma  Flick- 
inger,     "  I    dunno    when    we've    been    so 
slicked  up  and  settin'  round  on  a  Saturday 
afternoon  afore  doin'  nothin'!" 

It  was  a  half-holiday  at  the  factory,  and  the 
Flickinger  family  was  assembled  in  the  front 
room,  awaiting  the  arrival  of  Bill,  who  had  gone 
to  St.  Joe  to  bring  Sophie  Budzbanowsky  to  call 
on  them.  He  had  been  going  with  Sophie  so 
long  now  that  they  were  considered  as  good  as 
engaged;  and  Bill  sincerely  hoped  that  Sophie 
would  take  it  that  way,  and  save  him  the  hercu 
lean  task  of  proposing. 

Flickinger's  folks  so  seldom  had  company  that 
an  unwonted  thrill  of  expectation  pervaded  their 
dingy  rented  home.  Although  it  was  a  warm 
day,  Opal  sat  uncomfortable  in  her  best  dress, 
the  outgrown  wine-colored  worsted,  while  Jed 

75 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

was  fully  as  uncomfortable  in  his  new  suit,  which 
was  so  large  that  he  felt  lost  in  it. 

Jule  and  Milo  had  come  over  to  meet  Sophie, 
and  were  tending  the  twins  on  the  broken-down 
sofa.  For  once  Jule  was  neatly  attired;  she 
wore  her  new  green  lawn,  which  her  mother  had 
obligingly  ironed  for.  this  very  occasion. 

Ma  Flickinger  herself  had  put  on  a  clean  calico 
wrapper,  and  had  screwed  her  scanty  locks  into 
an  extra  tight  knot.  She  had  been  a  pretty 
woman  once,  with  jet-black  hair  and  red  cheeks ; 
but  now  she  was  stooped  and  wrinkled  and  faded. 
Pa  Flickinger  had  reluctantly  donned  his  old 
black  suit,  though  he  utterly  refused  to  submit 
to  a  white  collar. 

The  tramp  of  feet  was  heard  on  the  porch 
and  the  good-natured  growl  of  a  masculine 
voice.  Then  Bill,  very  red-faced  and  important, 
marched  into  the  house,  followed  by  Sophie 
Budzbanowsky,  whose  manner  was  in  marked 
contrast  with  Bill's ;  for  Sophie  had  a  great  idea 
of  always  being  nice,  an  ambition  that  had  never 
entered  the  head  of  the  clumsy,  self-satisfied  Bill. 

After  Sophie  had  visited  awhile  with  them,  she 
said:  "Billie  and  I  thought  it  would  be  nice  if 
we  all  went  over  to  the  lake  this  afternoon;  it's 
just  lovely  outdoors." 

76 


BILL'S   BUDZBANOWSKY 

"Nice,  yes;  but  land,  Sophie!"  exclaimed  Ma, 
"it  'd  take  six  months  to  git  us  all  ready.  But 
Jule  and  Milo  might  go,  seein'  they're  slicked 
up.  Opal  'd  tend  the  twins." 

"I'm  goin'.  What  say,  Milo?"  eagerly  ques 
tioned  Jule,  who  seldom  went  anywhere. 

"If  I've  got  the  change."  Milo  fumbled 
doubtfully  in  his  pocket. 

"Change  nothin'!"  cried  Bill,  who  liked  to  play 
the  liberal  lover.  "I'll  stand  for  this  treat. 
Git  on  your  togs,  people." 

"Bill's  Budzbanowsky!"  shouted  Butch,  sud 
denly  appearing  at  the  side  window  with  his 
nose  flattened  against  the  screen.  Butch  him 
self  had  nicknamed  Sophie,  and  was  always 
bursting  forth  without  the  slightest  warning 
with  that  long  string  of  syllables. 

"Shut  that  up,  Butch,"  ordered  Bill,  secretly 
tickled. 

"He  thinks  it's  smart,"  apologized  Ma. 
"Come  in  and  see  the  lady,  Butchie,"  she  coaxed; 
but  Butch  disappeared,  emitting  a  whole  chorus 
of  ear-splitting  "Bill's  Budzbanowskys." 

4 '  What  are  we  waitin'  for  ?"  inquired  Bill.  "  All 
hands  that  are  goin'  to  St.  Joe  with  me,  come  on." 

"  I  wish  Opal  was  going  with  us,"  said  Sophie, 
kindly,  noticing  the  little  girl's  wistful  look. 

77 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"  Oh,  Opal  don't  want  to  go  taggin'  along  with 
you  young  folks,"  answered  Ma.  "She's  been 
over  to  St.  Joe  twict  this  year." 

"And  that's  enough  for  any  little  girl,"  struck 
in  Pa,  politely. 

Sophie  and  Bill  and   Milo   and  Jule  started, 
watched  by  all  the  Flickingers  that  remained. 
""'Pears  like  we'd  never  been  married  at  all," 
mused  Milo,  on  ihe  way. 

"Whatever  put  that  fool  notion  into  your 
head?"  questioned  his  wife,  sharply. 

"A-goin'  out  like  this  in  company,"  he  re 
turned,  mildly. 

"It  don't  do  married  folks  no  harm  to  step 
outside  their  own  back-door  yard  once  in  a 
while,"  said  Jule. 

They  found  St.  Joe  thronged  with  promenaders, 
and  after  walking  through  the  little  park,  wan 
dered  down  to  the  dock,  where  one  of  the  large 
lake  steamers,  that  was  making  short  excursions 
that  day,  was  just  ready  to  start  on  another  trip. 

"  Let's  go,"  said  Bill  to  Sophie. 

"  I  should  much  like  it,"  she  answered,  primly. 
"Wouldn't  you,  Julia?" 

Bill,  who  by  this  time  was  tired  of  having  Jule 
and  her  husband  with  them,  scowled  at  Jule 
not  to  go,  but  she  spoke  up  boldly: 

78 


BILL'S    BUDZBANOWSKY 

"  Yes,  I  would.  I  ain't  never  been  on  this  here 
lake — nor  any  other,  for  that  matter." 

"  I  didn't  ask  you,"  Bill  ungraciously  informed 
his  sister;  "I  asked  Sophie." 

"I  asked  Julia,"  corrected  Sophie,  wishing  to 
make  peace. 

"Oh,  I  won't  go.  I  know  Bill  don't  want 
me,"  said  Jule,  sullenly. 

"I  sha'n't  go  without  Julia*'  Sophie  spoke 
positively. 

"Then  come  on — all  of  you,"  grudged  Bill. 

"I  won't  go  with  Bill,"  declared  Jule,  stub 
bornly,  though  she  was  dying  to  go. 

"Come,  go  with  me,"  unexpectedly  observed 
her  husband,  with  a  grin,  "  'cause  I'm  goin'." 

"For  the  land  sakes!"  exclaimed  Jule,  sur 
prised  and  delighted.  "Then  I'll  go." 

On  the  boat  Bill  left  the  girls  to  themselves 
and  attached  himself  to  Milo,  for  he  was  angry 
at  Sophie  for  insisting  on  Jule's  going  with  them, 
and  he  wanted  her  to  know  it.  At  first  it  had 
seemed  nice  to  show  her  off  to  his  folks,  but  he 
soon  grew  jealous  of  them,  not  realizing  that 
Sophie's  attentions  to  his  family  were  really  a 
compliment  to  himself. 

As  the  City  of  Chicago  steamed  slowly  past  the 
pier  and  out  into  Lake  Michigan,  leaving  St. 

79 


PA   FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

Joe  set  like  a  cameo  on  its  green  bluffs,  Jule 
felt  that  she  was  having  the  best  time  in  her 
whole  life:  the  unexpected  gallantry  of  Milo  in 
asking  her  to  go,  the  absence  of  the  twins,  which 
removed  so  much  responsibility  from  her  young 
shoulders,  and  the  companionship  of  a  girl  of 
about  her  own  age,  made  Jule  happy.  Milo  was 
also  enjoying  himself;  for  Bill,  ignoring  Sophie 
and  Jule,  took  his  brother-in-law  all  over  the 
boat  on  a  tour  of  inspection.  When  they  passed 
Sophie  and  Jule  on  the  deck,  Bill  called  out,  sar 
castically  : 

"  You  seem  stuck  on  Jule,  Miss  Budzbanowsky !" 

"Why,  I — "  began  Sophie,  but  he  was  out  of 
hearing  before  she  could  answer. 

"Ain't  he  provokin' ?"  sympathized  Jule. 
"  But  jest  pretend  you  don't  notice,  and  he'll  git 
over  it;  he's  only  jealous.  Billie's  got  a  good 
heart,  but  Ma's  spoiled  him." 

Sophie  made  no  reply,  but  Jule  knew  that  she 
was  hurt  by  Bill's  rudeness. 

Now  Bill  had  a  rival,  by  name  Ignatius 
Machnitzke,  from  whom,  months  before,  he  had 
wrested  Sophie.  Machnitzke  was  on  the  boat, 
and  seeing  Sophie  for  once  unattended  by  Bill, 
he  immediately  sought  her  out  and  began  over 
tures  by  means  of  a  box  of  crackerjack. 

80 


DRAWING     SOPHIE'S     ARM     THROUGH      HIS.      BILL     MARCHED 
TRIUMPHANTLY      AWAY 


BILL'S    BUDZBANOWSKY 

Sophie  was  just  removing  her  hand  from  the 
box,  gallantly  extended  by  Ignatius,  when  Milo 
and  his  brother-in-law  returned  from  a  final 
survey  of  the  boat. 

"Huh!"  snorted  Bill. 

Machnitzke  airily  offered  him  the  crackerjack 
box,  but  Bill  failed  to  see  it. 

"  Billie  looks  like  he  was  feelin'  off  about  some 
thing,"  remarked  Machnitzke  to  Sophie,  ignor 
ing  Bill  as  Bill  had  ignored  the  crackerjack. 

They  rode  back  to  the  dock  in  gloomy  si 
lence,  and,  leaving  the  boat,  tramped  up  to  the 
park,  Machnitzke  affably  attending  Sophie  on 
one  side,  and  Bill  stalking  sulkily  on  the  other, 
with  Jule  and  Milo  following. 

"We  haf  to  say  good-bye  now,  Bill,"  said 
Machnitzke,  insolently,  when  they  reached  the 
park.  He  had  bragged  at  the  factory  that  he 
would  get  Sophie  again.  "Sophie  and  I  ain't 
goin'  your  way  no  more." 

"Ain't  a-goin'  my  way?"  thundered  Bill,  and 
gave  Machnitzke  a  cuff  that  sent  him  sprawling 
over  a  near-by  rustic  seat. 

Drawing  Sophie's  arm  through  his,  and  never 
once  looking  back,  Bill,  in  a  strange  tumult  of 
joy,  marched  triumphantly  away,  leaving  Milo 
and  Jule  to  pacify  the  sputtering  Machnitzke. 

81 


PA   FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

So  exultant  was  Bill  at  disposing  thus  sum 
marily  of  his  rival  and  getting  rid  of  Jule  and 
Milo,  that  he  did  not  stop  to  think  that  the  girl 
might  not  consider  him  a  hero. 

"Why  don't  you  say  something?"  he  finally 
blurted  out,  as  they  stopped  at  a  secluded  seat 
in  the  shade  of  a  grape-hung  maple. 

Sophie  began  to  cry. 

"I  forgot  he  was  your  old-country  beau," 
sneered  Bill,  instantly  offended.  "I  suppose 
you're  cryin'  about  him." 

"  No,  I  am  not,"  answered  Sophie,  controlling 
herself;  "but  Ignatius  is  my  friend — and  he  is  of 
my  country — and  my  church — " 

"When  I  go  with  another  Catholic  Pole," 
cried  Bill,  violently,  jumping  to  his  feet,  "I'll 
know  it!  If  you  wanted  to  go  with  Machnitzke, 
why  didn't  you  say  so?" 

"I  didn't  want  to  go  with  him,  but — " 

"All  right,  Miss  Budzbanowsky,  I  see  how  it 
is;  I  ain't  good  enough  for  you.  Besides,  Jule 
has  been  settin'  you  up." 

"  She  has  not!"  contradicted  Sophie,  with  spirit. 

"  Well,  I  ain't  blind.  I  might  'a'  knowed  how 
it'd  end.  It  ain't  forgit  and  forgive  with  me." 
Every  word  Bill  uttered  showed  him  to  be  more 
of  a  spoiled  boy  and  less  of  a  man,  and  widened 

82 


BILL'S    BUDZBANOWSKY 

the  distance  between  him  and  Sophie.  "  If  I 
git  good  and  mad  I'm  mad  to  stay,  so  if  you've 
got  anything  to  say  why  you  took  Machnitzke's 
part,  say  it  now." 

"  I  didn't  take  his  part.  Only  I  don't  think 
it  nice  to  act  like  drunk  and  get  into  fight — " 

"I  ain't  been  drinkin'.  I  never  drink;  ask 
Ma.  If  you  hadn't  let  Jule  come  taggin'  along 
on  the  boat  nothin'  'd  happened.  Machnitzke 
sneaked  in  when  I  was  off  with  Milo." 

"It  wouldn't  have  been  nice  to  go  on  the  ex 
cursion  without  Julia  and  her  husband  when 
we  had  asked  them  to  come  to  St.  Joe  with  us. 
Besides,"  added  Sophie,  defiantly,  "I  liked  it 
better  with  Julia  along.  And  I  think  you  treat 
ed  her  wrong.  And  how  would  you  treat  a 
wife  if  you  act  so  to  a  sister?  And  I  don't 
change  my  mind,  either." 

"I  dunno,"  said  Bill,  sarcastically,  "as  I  ever 
ast  anybody  to  be  my  wife." 

"  If  you  never  ask — I  never  gave  you  chance 
to,  either!"  Which  was  strictly  true. 

"Here  we  part!"  announced  Bill,  angrily. 

"  Oh,  Billie,  let  us  part  friends!"  begged  Sophie, 
relenting  at  the  thought  of  losing  him. 

"Huh!"  exploded  Bill,  and  stalked  gloomily 
away. 

83 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

a  champion.  Jed  and  Opal  sat  wide-eyed  a 
uncomfortable  on  hard  chairs.  And  Sophie  v 
soon  seated,  an  honored  guest,  in  the  best  rod 
— not  the  easiest;  Pa  always  sat  in  that. 

"  I  did  hope,"  began  Ma,  diving  at  once  ir 
the  vital  subject  of  the  quarrel,  "that  when  a 
more  of  us  thought  of  gittin'  married,  we'd  ha 
sense  enough  to  make  a  good  match." 

"Well,  it  seems  as  if  Billie  has — if  he  a 
Sophie  make  up,"  began  Pa. 

"Yes,  if!    Billie's  certainly  started  out  righ 
admitted  Ma;  "but  what  he  lacks  most  is  set 
to  treat  you  right,"  she  continued,  turning 
Sophie. 

"  We  never  had  no  word  before,"  faltered  Soph 

"  Probably  nothin'  ever  crossed  him  afor< 
remarked  Jule. 

"  He  was  always  eo  good  to  me,  making  hi 
self  always  like  a  brother,"  testified  Sophie,  w 
had  determined  not  to  say  a  word  about  B 
but  who,  curiously  enough,  found  herself  pra 
ing  him.     "You  see,   it's  this   way.     I  am 
alone   in   this   country  since   my  mother   di< 
and  it  seemed  so  nice  for  Billie  to  make  ; 
acquainted    with   his   family  —  I    liked   that 
much — and  I  didn't  like  to  think  that  we  could 
be  friends  any  more." 

86 


BILL'S    BUDZBANOWSKY 

"You'll  find  us  friends  right  straight  through 
from  sun-up  to  day  afore  that,"  declared  Pa, 
heartily,  convinced  that  he  had  made  a  strong 
speech. 

"That's  right,"  added  Ma,  "and  Billie  'd  be 
only  too  glad  to  make  up  with  you,  Sophie,  but 
he  jest  acts  contrary.  He's  been  that  way  from 
a  young  one.  I've  knowed  him  to  git  spunky 
when  I  wouldn't  give  him  the  biggest  piece  of 
pie,  which  is  always  cut  large  for  Pa.  Billie 
never  could  give  in ;  not  but  what  it  would  have 
been  better  for  him  to  be  squelched  regular; 
but  he  always  got  the  better  of  me,  bein'  the 
first  boy.  Opal,  go  out  and  start  supper;  every 
thing's  ready.  Jed,  you  go  and  scour  the  knives 
and  forks  in  the  onion  bed — seein'  Sophie's  here." 

"Oh,  don't  make  such  trouble  over  me,"  pro 
tested  Sophie. 

"No  trouble,"  assured  Ma.  "We  always  aim 
to  shine  'em  up  occasionally." 

"And  no  cater waulin',"  cautioned  Pa,  as  the 
children  reluctantly  left  the  room.  "Remem 
ber,  company!" 

"  But  how  do  I  know  does  Billie  want  to  make 
up  with  me?"  questioned  Sophie. 

"Bill's  fair  pinin'  away,"  declared  Pa.  "His 
symptoms  is  plain." 

87 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"Bill  ain't  had  no  fetchin'  up,"  broke  in  Jule, 
whose  chief  contribution  to  the  conversation 
was  her  slighting  remarks  about  her  brother. 

"I  wouldn't  go  so  far  as  to  say  that,  with 
your  Ma  in  the  room,"  objected  Pa,  mildly. 
"Show  your  own  fetchin'  up,  Jule,  if  you've 
got  any." 

"It  ain't  that  Ma  ain't  tried  to  do  something 
for  him,"  admitted  Jule. 

"Summat!"  exclaimed  Fa,  solemnly.  "Your 
Ma's  been  the  makin'  of  us  all." 

"Bill  'd  addle  any  kind  of  fetchin'  up,"  ob 
served  Jule,  conclusively. 

"We  never  had  no  words  till  last  Saturday. 
Billie  was  always  the  perfect  gentleman  friend," 
testified  Sophie. 

"The  boy's  got  a  white  streak  in  him,"  ap 
proved  Pa. 

"Twisted  with  yallow,  though,"  put  in  Jule. 

"  Mebbe  you  did  more  in  the  first  place  to  rile 
Billie  than  you  let  on,  Jule,"  suggested  Ma. 
"You  seem  so  set  ag'in  him;  still,  I  don't  know 
as  more  than  usual;  you  two  always  fit  like  cat 
and  dog." 

"Oh  no!"  cried  Sophie;  "Julia  was  not  to 
blame.  If  I  had  only  said  different;  but  when 
he  called  me  a  'Catholic  Pole'  I  was  quick  mad." 


BILL'S    BUDZBANOWSKY 

"  'Twa'n't  right  to  twit  you  that  way,"  said 
Ma;  "and  'twa'n't  right  to  be  knockin'  down 
your  Polish  friends;  though  I  don't  think — " 

"No,  Machnitzke  went  too  fur,"  interrupted 
Pa,  following  her  unspoken  thought.  "Bill  'd 
never  a-butted  into  him  if  he'd  had  a  lady  with 
him." 

"Machnitzke  went  with  Sophie  first.  How  do 
you  suppose  Bill  got  her?"  inquired  Jule, 
triumphantly. 

"There's  ways,"  growled  Pa — "other  ways  of 
gittin'  a  girl  than  buttin'  in,"  he  added,  vaguely. 

"Billie  told  me  many  times  what  a  good 
mother  he  had,"  said  Sophie. 

"Did  he,  now?"  cried  Ma,  eagerly. 

"  I  said  Bill  was  white — "  began  Pa. 

"I  say,  folks,  is  Miss  Budz-zz — ?"  And  an 
indistinct  hum  like  a  passing  bee  trailed  off  into 
silence.  It  was  Jule's  husband  inquiring  at  the 
side  door. 

"  Miss  Sophie  Budzbanowsky  is  here,  if  that's 
what  you're  chewing  on,"  answered  Jule,  un 
graciously.  "What  of  it?" 

"Well,  'cause  Bill's  cominV' 

"Ain't  this  his  home?"  snapped  Jule. 

"Yes,  but  Miss  Sophie — might  not  be  pleasant 
for  her,"  hinted  Milo;  "might  go  outback  door." 

89 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

But  before  Sophie  had  time  to  profit  by  this 
well-meant  warning  a  heavy  step  pounded  on 
the  porch,  and  Bill  burst  into  the  house. 

"Holdin'  a  caucus  in  the  front  room?"  he 
called. 

"Sophie's  here!"  informed  Jule,  shrilly. 

"What  in  thunder!"  shouted  Bill — joy,  anger, 
resentment  conflicting  in  his  voice.  "  Then  I'll  be 
movin'  on."  Still  he  did  not  go,  but,  drawn  by 
an  overpowering  attraction,  doggedly  tramped 
into  the  front  room,  and  stood,  without  speak 
ing,  in  their  midst.  But  he  did  not  look  at 
Sophie. 

"  Billie  Flickinger,"  cried  his  mother,  her  hol 
low  cheeks  flaming  red  with  indignation,  "look 
at  yourself!  A  great  hulkin'  six-footer  a- worry- 
in'  a  little  mite  of  a  thing  like  Sophie.  You've 
run  this  family  for  twenty -two  year  with 
scarcely  a  good  word  for  one  of  us,  and  been 
pampered  and  took  care  of  and  meals  kept 
warm  for  you  —  and  now  you  work  off  your 
crankiness  on  a  born  lady!  And  what  if 
Machnitzke  was  mean?  Sophie  couldn't  help 
it.  And  a-twittin'  her  of  bein'  a  Catholic  Pole! 
What  'd  you  'a'  been,  Billie,  I'd  like  to  know,  if 
your  Pa  'd  a  saw  fit  to  settle  in  the  Poland er's 
country?"  and  Ma  paused  for  breath. 

90 


BILL'S    BUDZBANOWSKY 

"I'm  glad  Sophie  is  a  Pole!"  exclaimed  Jule. 
"I'm  proud  to  know  a  Catholic  Pole;  but  if  she 
was  a  Dago  Pole,  or  a  Sheenie  Catholic,  I'd  like 
her  just  as  well." 

"That's  right,"  echoed  Pa;  "and  a  man's 
religion  is  his  castlel" 

"Ma,"  yelled  Opal,  "what '11  I  do  with  this 
'tato  salad?" 

"Land!  I  plumb  forgot  it.  Stir  it  up  with  a 
fork." 

"  It's  folks  that  counts,  and  not  what  meetin'- 
house  they  go  to,"  moralized  Pa. 

"I  never  knew  afore  that  any  of  us  had  any 
religion!"  sniffed  Jule,  loftily. 

"  No  religion,  you  know,"  Pa  hastened  to  ex 
plain  to  Sophie,  "that  needs  a  meetin '-house 
steeple  to  oversee  it.  Though  this  family  aims 
to  do  right — at  least,  most  of  us  does,"  with  a 
glance  at  Bill,  "some  of  the  time." 

"Supper's  ready!"  announced  Opal  at  the 
door. 

"  It  ain't  a  question  of  religion,  and  Bill  knows 
it;  he  ain't  acted  decent,"  declared  Ma.  "  Every 
body  stop  jawin'  and  come  out  and  eat." 

But  Bill  and  Sophie  lingered  in  the  room  after 
the  others  were  gone. 

"Ma's  right,"  said  Bill,  simply,  looking 
91 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

straight  at  Sophie,  with  all  the  pain  and  desire 
of  the  past  miserable  week  crowded  into  that 
one  moment,  for  his  foolish  pride  and  unjust 
resentment  had  quite  died  out. 

And  for  once  in  his  life  Bill  Flickinger,  royal 
monarch  of  his  little  world,  had  acknowledged 
himself  in  the  wrong.  Sophie  had  never  seen 
him  look  so  manly,  and  the  eternal  feminine, 
whose  joy  it  is  ever  to  take  unto  itself  man's 
burden,  spoke  through  her,  saying: 

"  I  was  to  blame,  too,  Billie."  And  she  really 
thought  she  was. 

"  Cut  the  sparkin' !"  called  Pa  from  the  supper- 
table;  "  'tatoes  is  gettin'  cold." 

Then  Billie  and  Sophie  appeared  with  such 
remarkably  happy  faces  that  there  was  no  doubt 
about  their  having  made  up.  And  Ma  Flickinger, 
seeing  how  things  were,  promptly  burst  out  crying. 

"Now  what's  wrong?"  demanded  Bill,  with  a 
grin. 

"  It  give  me  a  turn,"  answered  Ma,  wiping 
her  eyes.  "Sophie  and  Billie,  crowd  in  between 
Pa  and  Jed." 

"Mebbe  there  ain't  no  cause  for  rejoicin'," 
hinted  Pa. 

"For  the  land  sakes,  Bill,  ain't  you  ast  her 
yet?"  questioned  Jule,  boldly. 

92 


BILL'S    BUDZBANOWSKY 

Bill  shook  his  head;  his  tongue  seemed  glued 
to  the  roof  of  his  mouth.  But  he  was  too  happy 
even  to  spar  with  Jule.  This  was,  indeed,  a 
heavenly  mental  state  for  one  of  Bill's  make-up 
to  attain. 

"Then  I'll  be  danged  if  I  don't  do  it  myself," 
growled  Pa,  with  huge  enjoyment.  "I'm  nigh 
as  anxious  as  Bill  is.  Now,  Sophie,  will  you 
have  Bill  for  keeps?  Fair  and  square,  you  can 
see  that  he's  dead  gone  on  you — and  so  are  we 
all." 

"If  Billie  he  wants  me,"  answered  Sophie, 
faintly,  looking  at  her  plate. 

"Out  with  it,  Bill,"  encouraged  Jule;  but  as 
her  brother  did  not  speak,  she  added:  "Ain't 
you  got  sense  enough  to  say  somethin'  ?" 

"Bill's  Budzbanowsky!"  shouted  Butch,  sud 
denly  appearing  at  the  open  door. 

"That's  right,  kid,"  Bill  managed  to  say. 

"Have  some  'tato  salad,  Sophie?"  begged 
Ma.  And  the  family  felt  that  Bill  would  now 
see  the  matter  safely  through. 


COUSIN     MOSELY'S     MONEY 

THE  smell  of  frying  pork  and  of  scorching 
potatoes  mingling  with  the  ghosts  of 
countless  similar  odors  permeated  the 
Flickinger's  dingy  home  late  one  afternoon,  and 
a  blue  smoke  rose  from  the  sissing  frying-pans 
and  crept  all  over  the  house,  and  even  sent  ad 
venturous  envoys  into  the  street,  where  it  met 
Pa,  stooped  and  tired,  returning  from  his  work 
in  company  with  Bill  and  Jed,  and  informed  them 
intangibly,  but  none  the  less  surely,  that  supper 
was  ready. 

After  a  hasty  wash  at  the  hydrant,  damply 
assisted  by  a  mussy  towel,  they  slouched  into 
the  house,  with  a  great  clatter  of  boots. 

Though  the  air  at  meal-times  was  always  thick 
with  cooking  smells,  this  evening  it  was  denser 
than  usual,  for  Ma  Flickinger  had  burnt  the 
supper. 

"It  give  me  a  turn,"  remarked  Ma,  abruptly, 
94 


COUSIN    MOSELY'S    MONEY 

as  she  sat  down  at  the  table,  after  dishing  up 
the  coarse  fare.  But  "a  turn"  being  one  of  her 
frequent  afflictions,  it  was  not  commented  upon. 

"Cousin  Mosely's  dead,"  volunteered  Opal, 
for  the  benefit  of  the  men  folks. 

"What  in  thunder!"  roared  Bill.  "Then  this 
family's  through  with  him." 
•  "I  dunno  what  you've  got  ag'in  Cousin 
Mosely,"  flared  Ma.  "And  this  family  ain't 
through  with  him  neither,  for  he's  gone  and  died 
and  left  me  a  legacy." 

"A  what?"  shouted  Pa  Flickinger,  shaken  for 
once  out  of  his  chronic  meal-time  indifference. 

"Legacy  —  property  —  money;  I  dunno  what 
all." 

"Who  said  so?"  burst  out  Jed,  incredulously. 

"Your  aunt  Prilly  wrote — he's  been  stayin' 
with  her:  'Cousin  Mosely  took  sick'"  —  she 
began  reading  the  letter,  which  she  had  hastily 
produced  from  her  pocket  —  "'the  twelfth  of 
the  month,  and  grew  weaker  and  weaker — '" 

"What  'd  he  leave?"  questioned  Bill,  bluntly; 
"cut  the  trimmin's  and  come  to  the  point." 

-and    grew   weaker   and    weaker,'"   con 
tinued   Ma,  unmoved,  in  the  precise,  rhetorical 
voice  she  always  affected   when  reading  aloud, 
' '  till  week  ago  last  Thursday—' " 

95 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"Did  he  leave  much?"  interrupted  Pa,  trying 
to  keep  the  eagerness  out  of  his  voice. 

"  When  '11  we  git  it  ?"  broke  in  Jed, "impatiently. 

"Shut  up!"  cried  Ma.  "Lemme  alone;  I'm 
gettin'  to  it  as  fast  as  I  can.  'Then  he  sud 
denly  got  worse,  and  could  take  but  little 
nourishment,  a  cup  of  gruel — '" 

"Cutj  the  fodder!"  commanded  Bill. 

" — and  he  passed  away  peaceful  at  9  A.M., 
dying  of  old  age.  He  didn't  say  any  last  words ; 
but  a  week  afore  he  died,  he  said,  "  Prilly,  write 
Lize  Ann  Flickinger  that  I've  left  her  something 
handsome  in  my  will."1 

"Hurray!"  shouted  Pa. 

"That's  the  stuff,  Ma,"  grinned  Bill.  "What 
else  did  Aunt  Prilly  say?" 

"Not  a  word;  jest  what  I  read — 'somethin' 
handsome'  —  whatever  that  is,"  returned  Ma, 
pouring  herself  a  cup  of  tea,  now  that  the  great 
news  was  out. 

"Mebbe  he  means  his  picture,"  suggested 
Bill,  facetiously. 

"He  was  huniBly  as  an  ape,"  declared  Ma. 

"i  dunno  about  that,"  observed  Pa,  unwill 
ing  that  so  generous  a  relative  should  be  dis 
paraged.  "  He  wa'n't  an  ill-favored  old  gentle 
man.  I  always  kinder  liked  Becker  Mosely." 

96 


COUSIN    MOSELY'S    MONEY 

"He  lived  with  us  more  than  he  did  with 
anybody  else,"  said  Opal,  "and  he  used  to  help 
me  tend  the  babies." 

"He  always  wore  my  best  shoes,"  contributed 
Bill.  "He  ought  to  remember  me  for  that;  not 
that  I  begrudge  it  all  to  Ma — she  certainly  does 
deserve  somethin'  handsome." 

"  Summat!"  exclaimed  Pa.  "  Why,  your  moth 
er's  all  but  fetched  Cousin  Becker  Mosely  up. 
He's  made  his  general  headquarters  here  for 
over  twenty  years  without  ever  payin'  a  cent. 
Nobody's  a  better  right  to  a  chunk  out'n  his 
property  than  your  Ma." 

"What  'd  you  reckon  he's  worth,  Pa?"  in 
quired  Ma  Flickinger. 

"Well,  I  dunno  for  sure;  he  never  said  much 
about  his  money,  but  he  had  it.  He  was  well 
fixed,  you  can  depend  upon  that — what  I'd  call 
rich;  and  it  never  cost  him  nothin'  to  live, 
always  stayin'  'round  with  relatives.  He  prob 
ably  hadn't  fur  from  two  thousand  dollars  in 
vested—from  what  he  let  slip  at  different  times." 

"Land  sakes!  I  never  knew  he  was  worth 
anything  like  that!  And  only  me  and  Aunt 
Prilly  to  divide  it  among!  If  I  don't  git  but  my 
rightful  share  accordin'  to  law,  it'll  be  a  plumb 
thousand." 

97 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"You  was  his  favorite,"  declared  Pa.  "I've 
heard  him  say  a  hundred  times  that  he'd  ruther 
live  here  than  anywhere  else,  and  I  shouldn't 
be  surprised  if  he'd  left  you  the  heft  of  his 
property." 

"Think  of  that!"  cried  Ma.  "And  he  wa'n't 
much  trouble  to  have  'round  neither;  he  was 
the  cheerfulest  old  feller." 

"He  give  me  a  jack-knife  when  I  was  a  kid," 
put  in  Jed. 

"When  you  was  a  kid!"  sniffed  Bill,  scorn 
fully.  "What  're  you  now?" 

"Cousin  Mosely  give  me  peppermint  drops — 
onct,"  testified  Opal. 

"And  he  was  the  greatest  feller  to  tell  yarns," 
remembered  Ma;  "good  as  a  story-book  when 
I  was  workin'." 

"I  always  thought  afore,"  remarked  Pa,  "that 
nobody  in  this  here  town  done  as  much  for  rela 
tions  and  got  as  little  out'n  it  as  we  did;  but 
now  our  hospitality's  comin'  home  to  roost,  all 
right,  all  right!" 

"Do  you  suppose  it  '11  be  a  hull  thousand, 
Ma?"  questioned  Opal. 

"Land!  don't  ask  me!"  cried  Ma,  draining  her 
second  cup  of  tea,  though  she  had  eaten  nothing. 

"I  don't  doubt  its  bein'  a  thousand,"  as- 
98 


COUSIN    MOSELY'S    MONEY 

serted  Pa;  "your  bein'  his  favorite,  and  his 
a-sayin'  'somethin'  handsome.'  But  I'd  kinder 
like  a  little  remembrance  from  him;  somethin' 
that  he'd  used,  'cause  Cousin  Mosely  and  me 
was  always  good  friends." 

"What '11  we  do  with  the  money,  Pa,  when 
we  do  git  it?"  asked  his  wife. 

"I  guess  we  could  find  places  enough  for  it," 
answered  Pa,  glancing  about  the  shabby  little  room. 

"We've  been  run  out  of  everything  so  long," 
sighed  Ma,  "that  I  dunno's  I'd  know  how  to  act 
with  a  cent  to  spend  that  J  didn't  have  to  save 
for  rent." 

"Say,  folks!"  yelled  Bill,  suddenly  struck 
with  an  idea. 

"Well,  don't  take  the  top  of  my  head  off," 
scolded  his  mother.  "  It  does  seem  to  me, 
Billie,  that  you're  old  enough  to  use  your  man 
ners — if  you've  got  any." 

"Buy  a  home!"  shouted  Bill,  triumphantly 
communicating  his  great  idea.  "The  new  house 
next  to  mine  and  Sophie's  is  for  sale."  For 
Billie  Flickinger  and  Sophie  were  soon  to  be 
married,  and  he  was  buying  a  home  with  month 
ly  payments. 

"Land  sakes,  Billie,  could  we?"  exclaimed 
Ma.  "What  say,  Pa?" 

99 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"Why,  yes,  a  house  and  lot;  Ma,  I  guess 
you've  hit  it,"  answered  Pa. 

"  To  have  rent  day  a-continually  hangin'  over 
my  head  is  a  nightmare  I  can't  never  git  used 
to,"  complained  Ma. 

"  I  always  pay  my  rent,"  growled  Pa. 

"Yes;  but  it's  always  a  pull,  and  you  know 
it.  If  we  could  have  a  little  place  of  our  own 
next  to  Billie's,  with  a  new  house  and  a  yard  and 
garden,  I  guess  I'd  never  want  to  die  and  go  to 
heaven." 

"Why  don't  you  see  the  man,  Pa,  that  owns 
it?"  encouraged  Bill. 

"I  could,  still  I  don't  like  to  count  Cousin 
Mosely's  gift  afore  it's  hatched." 

"But  he  said  'somethin'  handsome,"'  re 
minded  Ma. 

"I  could  inquire.     Who  owns  it?" 

"Bistle,"  informed  Bill. 

"I  believe  I'll  go  over  to-night,"  decided  Pa, 
sheepishly. 

"Pa  Flickinger!"  exclaimed  Ma,  "are  you 
daft?  It's  a  quarter-past  eight  now;  Bistles  'd 
be  abed  afore  you  got  half-way  there." 

"Me  and  Sophie  went  over  the  house  afore  we 
picked  out  ourn,  and  I  know  jest  how  it's  built," 
explained  Bill.  "Give  me  Aunt  Prilly's  enve- 

100 


COUSIN    MOSELY'S    MONEY 

lope,  and  I'll  mark  off  the  rooms."  He  soon 
had  a  small,  irregular  plan,  formed  without 
the  least  regard  for  the  commonest  rules  of 
drawing. 

"  I  hope  the  house  don't  bulge  like  that!"  cried 
Ma,  critically. 

"It's  good  enough  to  git  an  idee  from,"  Bill 
assured  her. 

"Here's  the  parlor,"  indicated  Jed,  leaving  a 
gloomy  cloud  from  his  thumb  over  that  crooked 
apartment. 

"Parlor!"  snorted  Bill;  "it's  the  livin'-room; 
parlors  ain't  stylish  now." 

"Let  me  see,"  petitioned  Opal,  crowding  in 
between  her  brothers. 

"There  ain't  no  sea;  stop  scrougin'!"  growled 
Jed. 

"You're  scrougin'  me!    Ma,  Jed's — " 

"No  cater waulin',"  roared  Pa,  "or  you  kids 
hike  to  bed!" 

"Here's  the  kitchen,"  informed  Jed,  making 
a  fresh  smear. 

"Keep  your  paws  off'n  the  thing,  Jed,"  or 
dered  Pa.  "You  act  as  if  'twa'n't  no  value 
unless  you  smear  it  all  up.  The  world  won't 
come  to  a  end  if  you  don't  tell  us  jest  how  every 
blamed  detail  is.  Give  your  Ma  a  chanct."  For 

8  101 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

Ma  Flickinger  was  vainly  trying  to  get  the  run 
of  the  plan  over  Jed's  shoulder. 

"But  what's  the  pantry  doin'  in  front?"  she 
questioned. 

"  You're  upside  down;  a  fool  'd  know  the  pan 
try  wa'n't  in  front,"  grumbled  Bill,  who  resented 
that  any  fault  should  be  found  with  his  plan. 
-  "A  fool  might  know  it,  Billie,"  reproved  Pa, 
"but  your  Ma  might  not — seein'  she  had  her 
view  backkards." 

"And  a  bay-window  for  flowers!"  exclaimed 
Ma,  who  by  this  time  had  acquired  a  better 
viewpoint,  "and  a  spare  room;  besides,  enough 
bedrooms  to  go  round!" 

"Which  '11  be  my  room?"  questioned  Opal, 
after  Bill  had  drawn  the  plan  of  the  upper  story, 
with  the  aid  of  a  case-knife  to  keep  the  lines 
straight. 

"You  shall  have  the  front  room,  Opal,  with 
the  little  alcove;  I  always  did  feel  mean  about 
your  sleepin'  on  a  cot." 

"Lookie,  here's  my  room,"  informed  Jed, 
delicately  pointing  out  the  attic  with  a  fork. 

"I  don't  believe  in  a  boy's  bein'  chucked  into 
the  dingiest  hole  in  the  house,"  protested  Ma; 
"no,  Jed,  you  can  have  the  side  room  that's  got 
a  window  in  front." 

IO2 


COUSIN    MOSELY'S    MONEY 

"I'd  kinder  like  this  one  I've  picked  out," 
insisted  Jed,  "'cause  I  can  see  my  pigeons  from 
it." 

"Where's  your  pigeons?"  scoffed  Bill. 

"Land  sakes,"  cried  Ma,  "there'll  be  a  yard! 
I  plumb  forgot  that.  Opal,  'we'll  have  a  lit 
tle  flower  garden  with  beds  of  pansies  and 
pinks  and  for-get-me-nots — and  roses,  too,  and 
a  row  of  hollyhawks.  Yes,  and  we'll  have  lay- 
lock  bushes  in  the  front  yard." 

"And  vegetables!  I  always  hankered  to:  be 
a  farmer  jay  myself,"  struck  in  Pa.  "I'll  bet 
you,  Ma,  without  braggin',  that  I  can  make  a 
stab  at  gardenin'  that  would  make  you  whistle! 
Jest  give  me  soil  and  seeds!" 

"But  to  grow  flowers!"  gloated  Ma.  "Of 
course,  I've  tried  here,  but  we  ain't  got  only  a 
few  feet  of  ground;  and  what  with  the  young 
ones  and  the  dogs  and  the  chickens,  it  'd  be 
easier  to  raise  Cain  than  crops." 

"Chickens!"  ejaculated  Pa;  "we'll'  fiave  the 
coop  right  here,"  pointing  to  a  spot  on  the  paper 
inside  the  wabbly  line,  supposed  to  be  a  fence, 
with  which  Bill  had  enclosed  the  plan  of  the 
house. 

"That's  my  pigeon-shed,"  objected  Jed. 

"Well,  you  and  your  Pa  don't  need  to  quarrel 
103 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

about  that,  Jeddie,"  conciliated  Ma;  "there's 
room  enough  for  both." 

"Well  have  our  turkey  for  Thanksgivin'  Day. 
Hey,  old  woman?"  exulted  Pa. 

"I  dunno,  Pa,  but  you're  goin'  in  too  heavy, 
chickens  and  turkeys  both.  It  takes  a  pile  of 
stuff  to  feed  'em.  Though  a  gobbler  on  a  holler- 
day  ain't  to  be  sneezed  at,"  conceded  Ma. 

"And  we  could  have  a  cat,  couldn't  we,  Ma?" 
petitioned  Opal. 

"Yes,  we  could,"  answered  Ma,  decidedly; 
"here  the  dogs  and  young  ones  'd  kill  a  cat  in  a 
day;  but  out  there  on  Pine  Street  there'll  be 
nothin'  ag'in  it — will  there,  Pa?" 

"I  don't  see  nothin'  to  hinder,"  replied  Pa; 
"it's  a  nice,  quiet  street.  But  I've  always  said 
that  we  didn't  want  to  keep  a  cat  till  we  could 
do  right  by  it." 

"Yet  I  dunno  as  we  ought  to  move,"  worried 
Ma.  "I  plumb  forgot  the  girls.  Here's  Mandy 
livin'  on  one  side  of  us,  and  she  looks  to  us  to 
help  her  with  Butch  since  her  man's  gone  to 
the  Klondike;  and  there's  Elvie  livin'  on  t'other 
side,  with  BeuJah  jest  learnin'  to  walk;  and  Jule 
and  Milo  and  their  twins  only  a  few  doors  off 
— they  fairly  live  here.  No,  I  don't  see  how 
we're  goin'  to  move  away.  I  dunno  but  it 

104 


COUSIN    MOSELY'S    MONEY 

would  be  selfish  for  us  to  pull  up  and  go,  even 
if  it  would  be  the  best  thing  for  us." 

"Well,  of  all  things!"  cried  Bill,  jealously, 
exasperated  at  his  mother's  self-denial.  ' '  Are  Jule 
and  Mandy  and  Elvie  more  account  than  me  and 
Sophie?  Don't  you  want  to  live  by  us  when 
we  git  married?" 

"Sakes  alive,  Billie,  I  plumb  forgot  you  and 
Sophie!  But  the  girls  have  got  to  dependin'  on 
me  so,  and  Opal's  took  more  care  of  their  babies 
than  they  have  themselves.  I  don't  suppose 
the  girls  'd  ever  hear  to  our  movin'  away.  What 
say,  Pa?" 

"I  say  this,  Ma:  you've  fetched  'em  up,  now 
let  'em  scratch  for  theirselves.  And  after  Bill's 
married  you'll  still  have  me  and  Opal  and 
Jed  on  your  hands;  it  stands  to  reason  you'd 
ought  to  do  the  best  you  can  by  this  remnant. 
I  say  move"  for  Pa  Flickinger  could  not  lightly 
give  up  the  precious  thought  of  owning  a  home. 

Though  the  family  waited  eagerly  for  the 
legacy,  the  days  lengthened  into  weeks  and  the 
weeks  into  months,  and  still  no  word  came  from 
Sister  Prilly  about  the  will  of  Becker  Mosely, 
deceased. 

But  all  this  time  the  Flickingers  were  in  a 
state  of  delightful  anticipation ;  for  Pa  had  seen 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

Bistle,  who  had  offered  to  hold  the  place  for  a 
few  weeks  for  him.  And  Ma  and  Opal  had  fur 
nished  the  house  from  attic  to  cellar  many  times 
in  imagination,  and  even  hoped  that  Cousin 
Mosely  had  left  enough  to  buy  new  furniture. 
They  visited  the  place,  which  was  even  nicer  and 
larger  than  they  had  thought  it  would  be  from 
Bill's  plan;  in  fact,  Bill  had  gotten  nothing  right. 
And  each  new  discovery  added  to  their  happiness. 

Ma  and  Opal  had  also  designed  the  flower 
garden,  from  the  row  of  "hollyhawks  "  to  the  bed 
of  "  for-get-me-nots,"  and  Pa's  vegetable  garden 
was  to  be  a  thing  of  wonder.  The  family  fairly 
revelled  in  seed  catalogues  and  their  intoxicating 
possibilities,  and  held  animated  sessions  every 
evening  after  supper,  in  which  enough  seeds  were 
selected  and  rejected  to  have  made  a  forty-acre 
desert  blossom  like  a  rose. 

Besides,  Opal  had  bespoken  of  Fairy  Jones  a 
very  new  gray-and-white  kitten  with  eyes  yet 
unopen  to  this  world,  but  guaranteed,  even  at 
this  early  age,  to  develop  into  a  fine  mouser. 

It  was  fully  three  months  after  the  announce 
ment  of  the  death  of  Cousin  Mosely  that  Sister 
Prilly's  second  letter  and  Ma's  legacy  came. 

"I've  heard  from  Sister  Prilly,"  remarked 
Ma,  dryly,  at  the  supper-table  one  night. 

106 


COUSIN    MOSELY'S    MONEY 

"Hurray!"  shouted  Pa:  "give  us  the  news." 

"How  much  did  Cousin  Mosely  leave  you?" 
cried  Bill. 

"He  left  me,  'with  his  kindest  love,'"  said 
Ma,  bitterly,  "a  gold-headed  cane!" 

"A  gold-headed  what?"  roared  Pa. 

And  Bill  was  so  shaken  out  of  his  usual  royal 
indifference  that  he  looked  completely  dazed, 
with  his  fork  of  potatoes  suspended  in  air  half 
way  to  his  mouth. 

"Look  at  the  thing!"  cried  Ma,  jumping  up 
and  waving  the  cane  before  the  astonished  men. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that's  all?"  gasped  Pa. 
"Ain't  you  a-foolin',  old  woman?" 

"Does  this  look  like  foolin'?"  snapped  Ma, 
shaking  the  unwelcome  walking-stick  in  front 
of  his  bulging  eyes.  "Would  I  buy  a  gold- 
headed  cane  when  I  ain't  saw  nothin'  bigger'n 
rent  money  for  twenty  years?" 

"It's  a  thunderin'  shame,  Ma!"  cried  Bill, 
bringing  his  great  red  fist  down  on  the  table  with 
a  bang  that  made  the  dishes  rattle. 

"I'd  like  to  break  the  danged  thing  over 
Becker  Mosely 's  head!"  stormed  Pa. 

"  It  wouldn't  hurt  him  none  now,"  remarked 
Ma,  grimly. 

"  But  it  'd  do  me  good,"  returned  Pa,  savagely. 
107 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"Take  the  blamed  thing  out'n  my  sight!"  he 
ordered,  violently.  "It  makes  me  fightin'  mad 
to  think  of  the  hypocritical  old  thing,"  refer 
ring  probably  to  Cousin  Mosely  and  not  the 
cane. 

"It  give  me  a  turn  when  the  expressman 
brought  it,"  acknowledged  Ma.  "Opal,  stick 
the  old  thing  in  the  cellarway.  Sister  Prilly 
wrote  that  it  was  left  as  a  remembrance." 

"  Who  wants  a  remembrance  from  him,  any 
way?"  inquired  Pa,  gloomily. 

"  Becker  Mosely  wore  my  best  shoes  reg'lar," 
grumbled  Bill,  "but  I  never  made  no  kick." 

"And  I  had  to  sleep  on  the  broken-down  lounge 
every  time  he  was  here,"  put  in  Jed. 

"He  said  I  was  too  big  to  play  with  dolls," 
contributed  Opal,  resentfully. 

"And  you  was,"  added  Bill,  who  seldom  took 
the  trouble  to  address  any  remark  whatever  to 
his  little  sister. 

"  And  I  spoilt  more'n  one  good  batch  of  dough 
nuts  tryin'  to  keep  the  run  of  his  yarns  and  do 
my  bakin'  at  the  same  time,"  affirmed  Ma. 

"Well,  here  we  are,  same  as  ever — nothin' 
doin'  about  the  house  now.  WTio  got  his  money, 
anyway?"  inquired  Pa,  as  an  afterthought. 

"Nobody;  he  didn't  have  a  cent  left." 
1 08 


COUSIN    MOSELY'S    MONEY 

"To  think,"  sighed  Pa,  "of  that  there  chicken- 
park." 

"Don't  I  miss  that  there  spare  bedroom  and 
that  there  bay-window  more'n  a  chicken-park, 
I'd  like  to  know?"  exclaimed  Ma,  indignantly. 
"And  didn't  I  want  a  house  where  Opal  could 
have  a  nice  room  of  her  own?  And  to  think  of 
that  there  flower  garden  and  them  laylocks !  Oh, 
land,  I  wish  we  wa'n't  so  pizen  poor!" 

"And  them  vegetables,"  lamented  Pa;  "we 
might  have  raised  more'n  we  wanted  and  sold  a 
few." 

"  I  promised  to  buy  pigeons  of  Ike  Peebles, 
and  now  I  can't,"  mourned  Jed. 

"How  about  Fairy  Jones'  kitten?"  asked 
Opal;  but  nobody  paid  any  attention  to  her 
question. 

"  I'm  only  a  poor  man,"  sighed  Pa,  "  and  I  pay 
rent,  and  I'm  willin'  to  do  it;  only  I  do  say  this 
— and  I  wish  I  could  say  it  so  loud  that  Becker 
Mosely  'd  hear  it  in  whatever  locality  he's 
spongin'  his  livin'  now:  that  what  I  do  mind 
is  havin'  my  honest  feelin's  acted  on  in  this 
way.  To  raise  expectations  as  Becker  Mosely 
has  our'n,  and  then  to  scrush  'em  with  a  gold- 
headed  walkin'-stick  ain't  Christian!" 

The  next  evening,  in  the  midst  of  their  deep 
109- 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

dejection,  came  Sophie  Budzbanowsky,  whom 
Bill  had  brought  to  consult  his  mother  about 
some  important  detail  of  their  coming  marriage. 

Sophie's  sympathy  took  a  practical  turn.  "  I 
don't  see,"  she  declared,  "  why  your  pa,  Billie, 
can't  buy  that  place  still,  yet,  on  the  instal 
ment  plan — the  same  as  you're  doing.  The  man 
gets  no  payment  down,  so  it  takes  a  little  longer 
to  pay,  and  the  payments  come  bigger,  but  that 
makes  not  so  much  difference,  either,  for  it's 
only  two  dollars  a  month  more  than  you  pay 
here." 

"Sophie!"  cried  Pa,  the  great  white  light  that 
plays  about  the  instalment  plan  suddenly  break 
ing  upon  him,  "you're  more  like  Ma  than  all 
the  rest  of  us  put  together;  she'd  'a'  thought  of 
that  if  you'd  'a'  give  her  time."  No  greater  com 
pliment  than  this  could  Pa  bestow. 

"I  did  think  of  it,"  admitted  Ma;  "but  I 
didn't  say  nothin',  havin*  been  such  a  big  fool 
over  Mosely  Becker's  money.  But  how  does  it 
strike  you,  Pa,"  she  inquired,  anxiously,  "buyin' 
on  the  instalment  plan?  You're  the  one  that's 
got  to  carry  the  burden." 

"The  instalment  plan  is  one  that  I  have  al 
ways  fought  shy  of,"  returned  Pa,  judiciously. 
"  When  it  comes  to  buyin'  diamonds  or  gilt-edged 
no 


COUSIN    MOSELY'S    MONEY 

minin'  stock  or  sealskin  sacks  —  not  for  me. 
But  when  it  comes  to  buyin'  a  home  that  way, 
that's  a  plan  of  a  different  color.  If  we  git  on 
to  a  place  of  our  own  we'll  never  let  it  go  back. 
But  what  '11  we  do  for  furniture?" 

"Me  and  Opal  can  do  wonders  with  our  old 
truck  in  a  decent  house,"  answered  Ma,  cheer 
fully. 

"And  when  you  have  paid  for  the  place,  you 
can  get  some  new  furniture,  yet,"  counselled 
Sophie. 

" So  we  can,"  assented  Ma;  "  I  declare  I  didn't 
stop  to  think  we'd  ever  git  the  instalments 
paid,  the  rent's  worn  such  a  deep  rut  in  my 
mind.  Still,  there'd  be  the^  taxes — " 

"But  they  don't  come  every  month,  snow  or 
shine,"  encouraged  Pa.  "And  you  know,  Ma, 
you  can't  expect  such  protection  as  Uncle  Sam 
gives  us  for  nothin';  it  wouldn't  be  square." 

"I  dunno,"  reflected  Ma,  "as  Cousin  Mosely 
did  us  such  a  bad  turn,  after  all,  if  we  git  a  home 
by  it." 

"Cousin  Mosely  lived  accordin'  to  his  lights," 
moralized  Pa,  magnanimously.  "And  I  see  now 
that  it  wa'n't  right  to  look  to  him  for  our  money. 
What  he  et,  he  et,  and  there's  a  end  to  it. 
But  it's  better  to  earn  your  own  money  every 

in 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

time  than  to  wait  for  a  dead  man's  shoes,  which 
frequently  don't  come  trottin'  your  way.  Opal, 
hand  out  that  there  gold-headed  cane,  and  let 
SopMe  have  a  squint  at  it." 

It  was  but  a  few  weeks  till  they  were  com 
fortably  settled  in  their  new  home,  for  the  in 
stalment  man  had  hurried  them  in.  And  Pa 
Flickinger  no  longer  dragged  stolidly  home  at 
night;  but  his  step  was  eager,  for  he  owned  a  bit 
of  land,  and  he  was  doing  wonders  with  it. 

"Ma,"  he  would  triumphantly  inquire,  "  whose 
garden  truck  is  a-humpin'  itself  like  ourn?" 

But  he  pretended  not  to  care  for  Ma's  flowers, 
though  she  knew  better;  for  on  Sunday  morn 
ings,  when  he  was  dressed  in  his  old  black  suit, 
she  often  saw  him  walking  from  bed  to  bed, 
lingering  over  the  blossoms,  and  poking  about  the 
roots  with  Cousin  Becker  Mosely's  gold-headed 
cane. 


VI 

MIS'     HI     LUNDY'S    PRESENT 

"  ¥  DUN  NO  when  I  ever  grudged  a  gift  afore," 

I  declared  Ma  Flickinger,  looking  longingly  at 
the  slender  frosted  glasses  and  graceful 
pitcher  of  the  water -set  on  her  dining-room 
table,  which  she  and  her  married  children  had 
bought  to  present  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hi  Lundy 
on  their  fifteenth  wedding  anniversary. 

"Jest  where  does  Mis'  Hi  Lundy  live?"  in 
quired  Jule,  who  was  over  to  make  arrangements 
for  the  party. 

"Twelve  Corners,  wherever  that  is — 'way  out 
in  the  country.  The  men  folks  is  goin*  to  hire 
a  livery  sleigh  and  take  us  all  out.  It  '11  be  a 
long,  cold,  tedious  ride.  I'd  ruther  take  a  lickin' 
than  go;  but  we've  been  invited,  the  present's 
bought,  and  the  cakes  baked.  And  as  long  as 
Mis'  Lundy's  a  sister  of  Mis'  Bistle  it  wouldn't  do 
not  to  go. 

"I've  never  had  a  water-set,"  continued  Ma, 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

wistfully  eying  the  glittering  present;  "we've 
always  drinked  out'n  jelly  dishes  since  my 
weddin'  goblets  busted;  they  went,  them  costly 
goblets,  one  by  one — every  new  baby  took  a 
whack  at  'em.  Beulah  broke  the  last.  That 
makes  me  think.  I  got  them  goblets  jest 
twenty-nine  year  ago  the — " 

"What's  the  livery  rig  goin'  to  cost?"  Jule 
wanted  to  know. 

"Land!  I  dunno;  it  '11  cost  enough.  That 
and  the  present  '11  be  more'n  we  can  afford.  I 
don't  see  how  on  earth  folks  who  go  into  society 
regular  manage." 

"  No  use  in  mournin*  over  the  cost  now,"  con 
soled  Jule.  "And  you  can't  expect  to  go  out 
in  company  unless  you  go  like  white  folks." 

"That's  no  lie,"  acknowledged  Ma,  gloomily. 
"  But  I  dunno's  society 's  worth  the  tug  you  have 
to  make  to  keep  up  with  it.  When  we  rented 
on  Loretta  Avenue  nobody  pestered  us  with  in 
vitations  nowhere;  but  out  here  where  every 
body  owns  his  own  home  it's  different.  Every 
body's  called ;  and  that's  nice  and  neighborly,  and 
I'd  ruther  be  neighborly.  And  everything's  more 
stylish  here,  and  folks  not  nigh  as  woodsy,  but — " 

"  It's  funny  Mis'  Hi  Lundy  ast  us  anyway," 
interrupted  Jule. 

114 


MIS'    HI    LUNDY'S    PRESENT 

"  It  give  me  a  turn,"  acknowledged  Ma,  "  when 
Mis'  Hi  Lundy,  way  out  to  Twelve  Corners,  who 
never  set  eyes  on  me  but  onct  at  Bistle's,  sent 
a  bid  for  our  hull  family  to  come  to  her  and 
Lundy's  crystal  weddin'.  She  never  saw  a  livin' 
soul  of  us  but  me;  but  I  suppose  our  bein'  so 
thick  with  her  sister,  Mis'  Bistle,  makes  her  feel 
acquainted  with  us." 

"She  did  it  for  the  present,"  observed  Jule, 
cynically.  "Lots  of  folks  do  it;  they  rake  and 
scrape  far  and  near  to  git  a  crowd." 

"I  dunno,  Jule,"  corrected  Ma;  "we  ain't  no 
right  to  judge  folks  as  does  us  the  honor  of  in- 
vitin'  us.  It  '11  be  a  pull,  but  we'll  go. 

"  It  seems  as  if  I  ain't  had  a  minute's  rest  since 
we  left  Loretta  Avenue,"  went  on  Ma.  "First 
there  was  the  tumble  upheavin'  rumpus  of  mov- 
in'.  Then  no  more  than  settled  than  off  conies 
Sophie's  and  Billie's  weddin' ;  and  though  quiet, 
and  only  a  trip  to  St.  Joe,  still  it  was  wearin', 
because  the  weddin'  dinner  was  held  here  on 
account  of  her  folks  all  bein'  dead  or  in  the  Old 
Country.  Then  the  neighbors  called,  and  finally 
I  got  my  courage  up  to  the  stickin'  p'int  of  put- 
tin'  on  my  best  duds  and  a-payin'  'em  all  back; 
and  then,  thinks  I,  I'll  have  a  little  peace.  But 
no  such  luck.  Here  comes  this  bid  to  go  out  to 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

Mis'  Hi  Lundy's,  which  jest  shows  how  one  dis 
agreeable  thing  '11  pile  onto  another." 

"Still,  I'd  ruther  be  like  other  folks  and  go 
somewheres  once  in  seven  years — if  it  is  a  pull," 
declared  Jule;  then  added:  "I've  washed  the 
twinses'  white  dresses  and  bought  'em  new  bear 
skin  hoods." 

"You  don't  want  to  take  babies  to  a  swell 
doin's  like  that,"  advised  her  mother.  "Opal 
'11  stay  at  home  with  'em." 

"Oh,  Ma!"  broke  in  Opal,  who  was  paring 
potatoes  for  supper. 

"The  twins  won't  be  no  bother,"  protested 
Jule;  "Milo  '11  tend  one  and  me  the  other.  I've 
washed  and  ironed  their  clothes,  and  they're 
goin'  to  go." 

"Then  can't  I  go,  too,  Ma?"  petitioned  Opal. 

"I  dunno,"  returned  her  mother,  absently, 
still  feasting  her  eyes  on  the  beauty  of  Mis'  Hi 
Lundy's  present;  "yes,  I  suppose  so;  you  could 
help  Jule  with  the  twins,  if  she's  bound  to  take 
'em." 

"Why  ain't  Opal  in  school?"  asked  Jule. 

"Elvie's  fixin'  over  her  old  blue  cashmere 
dress  to  wear  to  the  party  to-night,  so  Opal's 
been  over  there  'most  all  day  helpin'  with  the 
work  and  lookin'  after  Beulah." 

116 


MIS'    HI    LUNDY'S    PRESENT 

"Fairy  Jones  says  that  Opal  won't  pass  her 
grade  if  she  don't  stop  stayin'  out  like  she's  been 
a-doin',"  informed  Jule. 

"Well,  who  can  help  it?"  cried  her  mother, 
fretfully ;  "I  can't.  It  does  seem  as  if  somethin' 
happens  pretty  nigh  every  day  to  keep  Opal 
out'n  school.  I  tell  her  that  if  she  had  more 
gumption  she'd  hustle  through  her  work  and  go 
to  school,  anyhow.  But  she's  slower'n  tunket, 
and  we  can't  none  of  us  afford  to  hire  help.  But 
after  this  here  party  to  Lundy's  I'll  try  to  start  her 
in  and  keep  her  a-goin'  part  of  the  time,  anyhow." 

Opal  looked  wistfully  out  on  the  snowy 
world,  and  hoped  that  nothing  would  happen 
to  keep  her  from  going  to  the  party,  for  she  had 
never  had  a  real  sleigh-ride. 

At  half-past  seven  that  evening  Pa  and  Bill 
and  Milo  drove  up  to  the  Flickinger  home,  where 
the  family  was  assembled  ready  for  the  ride  to 
Twelve  Corners,  with  a  two-horse  team  hitched 
to  a  large  sleigh. 

"Ain't  you  a-goin',  Jed?"  Pa  asked  his  young 
er  son,  who  sat  by  the  stove  in  his  old  clothes, 
reading  the  daily  paper. 

"Naw,"  grunted  Jed,  disdainfully. 

"Jed  ain't  got  manners  enough  to  go  to  a 
swell  doin's,"  volunteered  Jule. 
9  117 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"Are  we  all  here?"  inquired  Pa. 

"All  here,"  answered  Ma,  "  except  Elvie's  man, 
Mort;  he  can't  go  on  account  of  Elvie's  cleanin' 
his  best  suit  with  kerosene  by  mistake  instead 
of  gasolene,  and  the  smell  ain't  out  yet." 

"Besides,  Mort's  got  a  cold,"  explained  Elvie; 
"but  he  sent  me  along,  so  's  the  Bistles  won't  be 
mad.  And  he's  goin'  to  take  care  of  Beulah." 

Janice  and  Jasper,  wrapped  in  such  a  multi 
plicity  of  coverings  that  they  might  have  been 
embalmed  mummies  instead  of  live  babies,  were 
ranged  in  two  systematic  oblongs  on  the  lounge, 
as  if  for  inspection  in  a  museum. 

"Land  o'  Goshen,  Julo,  what  have  you  got  on 
your  head?"  questioned  Ma,  catching  sight  of 
Jule. 

"Automobile  veil,"  said  Jule.  proudly.  For 
elaborately  draped  over  her  old  red  felt  hat, 
with  its  taj^y  feather  and  lopping  brim,  was  a 
new  gauzy  gray  veil. 

"What  'd  it  cost?"  demanded  her  mother, 
praetieally. 

"It  didn't  cost  nothin';  it's  a  remnant,  I 
got  it  at  a  sale." 

"Oh,  nothin'!"  exclaimed  Ma.  exasperated; 
"it  must  'a'  eost  somethinV 

"Well,  hardly  nothin',"  gave  in  Jule.  "It 
nS 


MIS'    HI    LUNDY'S    PRESENT 

was  thirty-three  and  a  third  cents  off,  if  you've 
got  to  know,  at  fifteen  cents  a  yard." 

"I  ain't  got  time  to  figure  anything  like  that 
out  now,"  grumbled  Ma,  who  was  pulling  on  her 
old  black  alpaca,  though  she  thought  it  scarcely 
fit  for  so  grand  an  occasion  as  Mis'  Hi  Lundy's 
crystal  wedding.  Sophie  was  prettily  dressed  in 
her  wedding  finery,  which  she  had  earned  while 
working  in  the  factory  in  St.  Joe  before  her 
marriage  to  Bill.  Opal  was  bursting  out  of  her 
best  dress  and  cloak  that  were  much  too  small 
for  her;  but  she  was  happy,  for  she  was  really 
going  to  have  a  sleigh-ride — unless  her  mother 
changed  her  mind  at  the  last  minute.  Elvie, 
muffled  beyond  recognition,  had  providently 
worn  her  husband's  fur  cap,  fearing  it  would  be 
a  cold  ride.  While  Mandy,  wrapped  in  a  heavy 
blanket  shawl,  had  on  her  best  hat,  stubbornly 
unmindful  of  what  the  weather  might  be,  but 
proudly  conscious  that  the  hat  had  cost  four 
dollars  as  many  years  ago,  and  that  it  still  looked 
well  in  the  evening.  Her  husband,  William  Pan- 
ner,  had  bought  it  for  her  before  he  went  to  the 
Klondike,  and  poor  Mandy  hoped  it  would  hold 
out  till  he  returned  home  rich;  but  she  had  not 
heard  from  him  for  so  long  a  time  that  she  was 
very  anxious  about  his  safety. 

119 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

Butch,  who  was  ready  to  go,  had  an  old  string 
of  sleigh-bells  strapped  around  him  like  a  harness. 

"For  the  land  sakes!"  cried  his  grandmother. 
"Butch  don't  go  in  them  bells,  does  he?  Mis' 
Hi  Lundy'll  have  a  fit!" 

"I  couldn't  make  him  take  'em  off.  And 
when  I  think  of  his  pa  away  off  in  them  frozen 
parts,  I  jest  can't  be  harsh  to  little  Butchie," 
whimpered  Mandy. 

"Because  his  pa  acted  the  fool  in  runnin'  off 
to  the  ends  of  the  earth  for  gold  is  no  reason  for 
Butch  a-growin'  up  one,"  scolded  Ma.  "Take 
'em  off,  Butch,  or  you  can't  go  a  step." 

"Leave  'em  on,  Butch,"  countermanded  his 
big  uncle  Bill,  "we  want  a  mascot." 

"What's  that?"  asked  Ma,  suspiciously. 

"It's  what  Butch  is,"  enlightened  her  son, 
with  a  superior  grin. 

"Whatever  'tis,  I'll  bet  'tain't  nice,"  snapped 
his  mother. 

"Come,  bundle  out!"  shouted  Pa.  "Climb 
right  into  the  box,  folks,"  he  ordered;  "only  one 
seat,  and  that's  for  the  driver.  Would  you 
want  a  softer  night,  Ma?"  he  questioned.  "And 
look  at  the  moon,  round  as  a  pancake." 

"Looks  to  me  like  it  was  a-goin'  to  snow," 
remarked  Ma. 

1 20 


MIS'    HI    LUNDY'S    PRESENT 

Bill,  who  wanted  to  drive,  and  Sophie  and 
Opal  sat  on  the  seat. 

"Be  careful  of  that  team,  Billie,"  cautioned 
Ma,  as  they  started  off;  "remember  that  livery 
horses  ain't  cows.  Wrap  the  lines  around  your 
hands  a  couple  of  times,  and  don't  monkey  with 
the  whip." 

The  night  was  beautiful,  and  the  road  lay  like 
a  silver  ribbon,  while  ahead  of  them  sped  another 
bob,  driven  by  their  neighbor,  Mr.  Bistle,  who 
went  in  front  to  lead  the  way  to  Twelve  Corners, 
for  none  of  the  Flickingers  had  ever  been  there. 

"Flyin'  some,"  remarked  Pa,  jovially. 

"We  don't  go  nigh  Lake  Michigan,  do  we?" 
asked  Ma,  anxiously. 

"T'other  way,"  assured  Pa. 

"I'm  thankful  for  that,"  replied  Ma,  "'cause 
I  don't  want  to  git  spilled  into  the  water." 

"Spilled  nothin',"  laughed  Pa.  "Who's  goin' 
to  git  spilled?" 

"We  are,"  stated  his  wife,  pessimistically. 
"  I  never  knew  of  a  bob  load  yet  that  didn't  git 
spilled — comin'  or  goin'." 

"Cold,  Ma?"  inquired  Pa,  solicitously. 

"  Yes,  I  be.  Holdin'  on  to  this  present  keeps 
my  hands  out'n  the  blankets  all  the  time;  I'm 
as  stiff  as  a  wooden  Indian." 

121 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"If  we'd  'a'  got  somethin'  a  little  less  showy, 
it  might  have  been  easier  to  handle,"  observed 
Pa,  from  his  snug  place  among  the  blankets. 

"  If  we'd  'a'  got  nothin'  at  all,  it  'd  been  easier 
yet,"  grumbled  Ma.  "I  wish,  Pa,  you'd  make 
Butch  stop  'a'  standin'  on  that  runner;  it  makes 
me  nervous,"  she  complained.  "The  next  time 
this  family  goes  on  a  sleigh-ride,  I  hope  we  won't 
have  the  pleasure  of  Butch  hooked  up  into  bells 
like  Santa  Glaus'  reindeer." 

"You  can't  do  nothin'  with  Butch,"  an 
nounced  Pa,  easily;  "he's  the  worst  there  is." 

"Ma,  ain't  them  snow-clouds  a-comin'  up  in 
the  north?"  asked  Mandy. 

"Looks  like  it,"  answered  her  mother.  "Pa, 
is  there  a  storm  a-brewin'?" 

"Aw,  shucks,"  laughed  Pa,  "stop  your 
croakin';  moon's  still  shininV 

"  I'd  'a'  been  better  pleased  if  it  'd  a-stormed 
so  we  couldn't  a-went,"  declared  Ma.  "When 
have  we  folks  went  to  a  party  ?  And  how  '11 
we  act  when  we  git  there?  I  know  we'll  look 
like  greenies  among  them  Twelve  Corners  folks. 
Mis'  Bistle  says  they  dress  to  kill  at  such  a-doin's. 
Land!  I  wisht  a  earthquake  would  swaller  the 
hull  bilin'  of  us  afore  we  ever  git  there." 

Opal,    packed    in    snugly    between    Bill    and 

122 


MIS'    HI    LUNDY'S    PRESENT 

Sophie,  was  having  a  delightful  experience;  the 
soft  moonlight  fell  like  silver  on  the  still,  white 
landscape,  and  the  swift  ride  was  wonderfully 
exhilarating. 

"Let  me  drive,  Billie?"  coaxed  Opal. 

"You  couldn't  drive  a  team  of  rabbits," 
teased  Bill. 

Opal  grabbed  the  line  nearest  her,  but  dropped 
it  by  accident  as  soon  as  she  had  wrested  it 
from  her  brother,  and  it  trailed  on  the  snow 
beside  the  bob,  while  Bill  laughed  boisterously, 
and  Opal  and  Sophie  were  frightened. 

"What's  loose  ahead?"  shouted  Pa,  noticing 
the  commotion. 

"Opal's  dropped  a  line!"  yelled  Bill,  not 
alarmed,  for  he  thought  it  could  be  easily  pick 
ed  up. 

"What 're  you  goin'  to  do?"  demanded  his 
father. 

"Hop  out  and  git  it,  Pa,"  ordered  Bill. 
"They're  liable  to  run  away,"  he  added,  to 
bother  Opal  and  Sophie. 

Pa  floundered  with  awkward  lunges  into  the 
deep  snow  by  the  roadside,  followed  by  Butch, 
whose  string  of  bells  jingled  like  an  approaching 
team,  at  which  the  horses  quickened  their  pace, 
leaving  Pa  far  behind. 

123 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"Here!"  cried  Ma,  shoving  the  bulky  package 
of  Mis'  Hi  Lundy's  wedding  present  into  Milo's 
lap;  "don't  you  dast  to  break  it!"  Then  she 
leaned  far  over  the  box,  and,  after  several  futile 
grabs,  caught  the  loose  line,  and  pulled  in  on  it 
so  suddenly  that  the  puzzled  team,  swerving 
unexpectedly,  dumped  the  whole  bob  load  of 
people  into  the  soft  snow  of  a  shallow  ditch. 

"Billie  Flickinger,"  scolded  Ma,  angrily,  as 
the  scared  but  unharmed  family  scrambled  to 
their  feet,  "you  a  married  man  and  actin'  like 
a  three-year-old!  Where  do  you  expect  to  go 
to?  Don't  you  know  livery  horses  are  high 
lifed?" 

"You  did  it  yourself — pullin'  in  so  sudden  on 
that  line,"  explained  Bill. 

"I  don't  blame  myself  a  bit,"  claimed  Ma; 
"  you  didn't  keep  the  lines  wrapped  'round  your 
hands." 

"Opal  started  it,"  accused  Bill. 

"Shut  up!"  ordered  his  mother.  "Opal's  lack 
of  sense  don't  make  you  no  brighter.  Pa,  take 
your  place  where  you  belong,  beside  Billie. 
You  girls,  Opal  and  Sophie,  crawl  into  the  box. 
Land!  I  wish  we  was  safe  home  ag'in.  Milo, 
reach  me  that  present;  I  don't  want  it  broke 
after  all  this  trouble." 

124 


MIS'    HI    LUNDY'S    PRESENT 

Large  flakes  of  snow  now  began  to  fall,  the 
moon's  face  was  hidden  by  trailing  clouds,  and 
a  cold  wind  sprang  up  from  the  east  as  the 
Flickingers  started  again  on  their  way. 

"To  think,"  sniffed  fat  Mandy,  "of  my  man's 
bein'  out  in  snow  like  this." 

"Your  eyes  '11  be  red  as  a  turkey's  if  you 
don't  stop  cryin',  then  how  '11  you  look  at  Mis' 
Hi  Lundy's?  Ain't  you  got  no  pride?  Snow 
naturally  does  call  up  the  Klondike,  but  Fanner 
may  be  rollin'  in  gold  dust  even  now,"  encour 
aged  Ma. 

"That's  so,"  allowed  Mandy,  cheered  by  the 
thought;  "he'll  never  come  home  poor." 

"Butch  Fanner '11  never  come  home  at  all," 
declared  Pa,  easily,  at  which  remark  Mandy  be 
gan  to  sniff  again. 

"Never  mind,  Mandy,  don't  cry.  I'd  try  to 
put  my  thoughts  right  off'n  my  man  for  a  few 
hours,  and  in  joy  the  party,"  advised  El  vie, 
comfortably.  Her  husband  was  safe  at  home, 
so  she  could  afford  to  give  sensible  advice. 

"Where's  that  twin  you  was  a-carryin',  Milo?" 
asked  Jule,  who  had  one  baby  in  her  own  arms. 

' '  I  dunno ;  I  laid  it  down  summers  when  I  took 
Mis'  Hi  Lundy's  present  from  your  Ma  afore 
we  tipped,"  answered  Milo. 

125 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"Pa,  a  twin  is  lost!"  cried  Ma,  shrilly. 

"Hunt  it  up,"  advised  Pa,  shortly,  beating 
himself  with  one  hand  to  keep  his  blood  circulat 
ing,  for  the  weather  was  becoming  colder. 

"But  it  ain't  here!"  screamed  Jule,  pawing 
wildly  about  in  the  bob. 

"Pa,  I  tell  you  a  twin  is  lost!"  repeated  Ma. 

"Which  one?"  questioned  Pa,  still  unmoved. 

"We  don't  know  yet,  they  was  so  bundled  up. 
Stop  the  team!"  commanded  Ma. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  a  twin  is  lost  out'n 
the  sleigh?"  shouted  Pa,  and  becoming  aware 
of  the  seriousness  of  the  affair,  stopped  the 
horses. 

"It  must  have  got  lost  when  we  spilled  out," 
decided  Ma.  "Everybody  pike  back  and  look, 
except  Pa.  You  hold  the  horses.  And,  Milo, 
don't  you  dast  to  let  go  of  Mis'  Hi  Lundy's  pres 
ent  for  a  minute." 

Frenziedly  they  hurried  to  the  scene  of  their 
upsetting,  and  tramped  down  the  snow  and 
poked  in  the  fence  corners,  but  no  baby  was 
there. 

"Twin's  lost!  twin's  lost!"  exulted  Butch,  and 
pranced  about,  jingling  his  string  of  bells  like 
a  half -broken  colt. 

"If  you'd  'a'  left  'em  home  with  Opal,  they'd 
126 


MIS'    HI    LUNDY'S    PRESENT 

'a'  both  been  there  now,"  Ma  complained,  bitterly, 
to  Jule. 

"If  Opal  hadn't  'a'  wanted  to  go  so  bad,  and 
she  never  does  go  nowhere,"  cried  Jule,  "I'd  'a' 
left  'em  with  her!" 

And  Opal  felt  guilty  because  she  had  not  in 
sisted  on  staying  at  home  with  the  twins.  But 
a  shrill  cry  from  the  bob  warned  them  that  the 
baby  was  found,  and  they  hurried  back. 

Under  the  seat,  stowed  among  the  cakes,  was 
a  shapeless  bundle  that  contained  the  unmis 
takable  voice  of  a  twin. 

"/  found  it,"  grinned  Milo.  "I  didn't  dast 
to  leave  go  of  Mis'  Hi  Lundy's  present,  but  I 
prodded  around  in  the  bob  with  a  free  foot, 
and  stirred  it  up  and  set  it  goin'." 

"Pile  in,"  growled  Pa,  "double  quick,  or  we 
won't  git  to  Lundy's  till  they're  all  dead  and 
buried.  Danged  Michigan  weather!"  he  grum 
bled;  "melt  one  minute  and  freeze  the  next." 
And  he  urged  on  the  horses. 

"It  warmed  us  up  a  little,  anyway!"  cried  Ma, 
cheerfully,  now  that  the  baby  was  found.  "I 
guess  I'd  'a'  froze  stiff  if  I'd  'a'  set  there  much 
longer  screwed  onto  Mis'  Hi  Lundy's  present." 

Bill,  tiring  of  the  exposed  seat  beside  his 
father,  crawled  under  the  blankets  in  the  bob; 

127 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

and  Butch  no  longer  vibrated  dangerously,  half 
in  and  half  out  of  the  sleigh,  but  burrowed  un 
der  one  corner  of  his  mother's  shawl,  his  bells 
tinkling  sleepily. 

"Ain't  we  most  there?"  called  Ma,  still  clutch 
ing  the  present  with  stiffening  arms. 

"We  ought  to  be,"  answered  Pa,  non-com- 
mittally. 

"Holler  and  ast  Bistle,"  advised  Bill,  who 
was  tiring  of  the  ride. 

"I  ain't  saw  the  Bistles  for  five  mile,"  returned 
Pa,  gloomily. 

"What  'd  you  lose  sight  of  the  Bistles  for, 
Pa?"  demanded  Ma  Flickinger.  "Ain't  you  got 
no  sense?" 

"I  lost  sight  of  'em  when  that  there  twin  was 
bein'  hunted,  but  Twelve  Corners  can't  be  fur 
from  here.  Darn  the  snow!" 

The  keen  wind  cut  their  faces,  and  it  grew 
steadily  colder.  The  Flickingers  cowered  shiv- 
eringly  under  the  blankets,  that  were  heavy  with 
snow.  Drifts  formed  across  the  track,  but  Pa 
kept  doggedly  on,  half-blinded  by  the  storm. 

"The  next  time  I  go  to  a  party  to  please  the 
Bistles  or  anybody  else,"  cried  Ma,  "you  may 
call  me  a  fool !  Here  we  are  half  froze.  How  can 
we  brace  up  and  remember  our -company  man- 

128 


MIS'    HI    LUNDY'S    PRESENT 

ners  at  a  swell  doin's?     And  after  that  misery 
—the  long,  cold  ride  home!" 

"My  automobile  veil's  as  limp  as  a  wilted 
rag,"  lamented  Jule.  "I  wisht  I'd  'a*  saved  it 
for  Easter." 

Mile  after  mile  dragged  by,  and  Pa  Flickinger 
was  just  making  up  his  mind  that  he  must  have 
missed  Twelve  Corners,  when  the  horses  unex 
pectedly  came  to  a  standstill  of  their  own  ac 
cord  before  a  house  whose  outlines  were  dimly 
visible  through  the  falling  snow.  A  feeble  light 
burned  in  a  back  window.  Stumbling  stiffly  to 
the  side  door,  he  pounded  loudly,  intending  to 
inquire  the  way. 

"What  're  you  raisin'  the  dead  for?"  com 
plained  Ma,  querulously. 

"Wanter  know  where  I  am,"  replied  Pa, 
gruffly. 

"Who  lives  there?"  inquired  Jule,  curious, 
though  quaking  with  cold. 

"A  danged  blockhead!"  stormed  Pa,  and 
pounded  louder  than  ever. 

An  up-stairs  window  was  raised,  and  a  drowsy 
voice  growled,  "The  door  ain't  locked,  Pa." 

"It's  Jed!"  cried  Opal;    "its  our  house!" 

"Opal,  are  you  daft?"  questioned  Ma,  sharply. 
"'Tain't  neither  our  house." 

129 


"'Tis,  too,  our  house!"  contradicted  Jule. 

"Don't  tell  me  we're  home!  Land,  we  are!" 
Ma  spoke  in  an  awed  voice. 

They  were  really  at  home,  for  Pa  Flickinger, 
having  lost  sight  of  the  Bistles,  turned  the  wrong 
corner  at  the  cross-roads,  and  the  team  had  come 
faithfully  back. 

They  all  hurried  thankfully  into  the  house, 
except  Pa,  who  went  on  to  the  stable  with  the 
horses. 

Butch,  sound  asleep,  was  jerked  in  by  his 
mother,  half  doubled  like  a  rusty  pocket-knife ; 
waking  by  degrees,  he  sobbed  with  me  cold. 

"Tromp  around,  Butch,"  ordered  his  grand 
mother,  stirring  up  the  fire.  "Opal,  cut  bread 
and  put  to  toast  on  the  stove.  Jule,  fill  up  the 
coffee-pot  and  fetch  in." 

"Oh!  oh!"  cried  Butch,  his  bells  jangling 
miserably. 

"Stomp  your  feet  like  a  little  man,"  advised 
Bill. 

"Kick  your  heels  like  fun,  Butchie,"  suggested 
Milo,  who  was  kicking  his  own. 

"I'm  fr — ee — zin'  I  am — um,"  blubbered 
Butch. 

"Shut  up!"  scolded  Ma  Flickinger.  "Mandy, 
take  them  bells  off'n  Butch;  he  makes  me  wild, 

13° 


MIS'    HI    LUNDY'S    PRESENT 

ringin'  like  the  night  afore  Christmas.  Land! 
ain't  we  a  pretty  picture  for  respectable  folks 
— comin'  home  'most  mornin'?" 

"It's  jest  twenty-six  minutes  after  nine,  Ma," 
informed  Bill,  who,  seated  in  the  warmest  place, 
had  seized  the  first  piece  of  toasted  bread,  and 
was  spreading  it  thickly  with  butter. 

Pa  came  stamping  in,  cold  and  hungry.  ' '  Land 
o'  Goshen,"  cried  Ma,  "you  look  as  blue's  a 
jug!  Warm  yourself.  Here's  a  hot  cup  of 
coffee.  Billie,  where's  that  big  chunk  of  bread 
I  was  toastin'  for  your  Pa?  Hand  it  over, 
sir." 

Little  by  little  the  Flickingers  divested  them 
selves  of  their  outer  wraps,  and  thankfully 
munched  bread-and-butter  and  drank  hot  coffee. 
Butch  no  sooner  thawed  out  than  he  went  to 
sleep  standing  by  the  stove,  and  had  to  be 
steered  on  to  the  lounge,  where  he  tumbled  in 
an  unconscious  heap  beside  the  crumpled  bundles 
that  contained  the  sleeping  twins. 

"Was  we  fetched  home  ?"  inquired  Pa,  solemn 
ly.  "Yes,  we  was.  I  won't  say  who  did  it, 
but  I  know  'twa'n't  mortal  hands." 

"You  turned  a  wrong  corner,"  said  Bill,  prac 
tically,  "and  the  team  jest  naturally  come  back." 

"No  livery  team  'd  'a'  come  to  my  own  door 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

with  me,"  stated  Pa,  with  conviction,  "without 
bein'  led  by  summat  higher  nor  horse  sense." 

Sophie,  who  had  been  talking  aside  with  Jule 
and  Mandy  and  Elvie,  went  with  them  into  the 
kitchen,  and  then  called  for  Bill  and  Milo  to 
follow. 

' '  What  're  you  folks  all  a-doin'  in  my  kitch 
en?"  cried  Ma,  suspiciously. 

"Drinkin',"  chuckled  Bill. 

"No  use  to  whisper  and  giggle  and  act  as  if 
you  was  stealin'  it,  then,"  snapped  Ma;  "water's 
free." 

But  they  were  all  back  in  the  room  again  be 
fore  she  had  finished  speaking,  and  Bill,  who 
was  carrying  a  bulky  package,  began  in  a  formal 
tone :  ' '  Mis'  Flickinger,  in  behalves  of  the  Flick- 
inger  family,  here  assembled  together,  I  present 
you  with  Mis'  Hi  Lundy's  weddin'  present." 

"Shut  up  your  nonsense,"  retorted  Ma,  tak 
ing  the  water-set  ungraciously  and  putting  it  on 
the  dining-room  table.  "We'll  have  to  send  it 
up  by  the  stage." 

"We  won't  do  no  such  thing.  That  water-set 
is  yourn,  Ma;  cut  the  regrets  that  you  can't 
give  it  where  it  don't  belong,"  said  Pa,  heartily. 

"Dast  I  keep  it?  What  say,  Sophie;  would 
it  be  decent?"  asked  Ma  of  her  daughter-in-law, 

132 


MIS'    HI    LUNDY'S    PRESENT 

for  Sophie  was  considered  a  great  authority  on 
social  matters. 

"It's  sure  yours,"  declared  Sophie,  beaming 
with  pleasure,  for  it  was  she  who  had  suggested 
giving  the  water-set  to  Ma. 

"Much  obliged,  everybody,"  said  Ma,  openly 
wiping  her  eyes,  and  then  untying  the  present. 
"I  couldn't  have  liked  it  better  if  it  'd  been 
bought  for  me.  Still,  carryin'  it  so  far  I  guess 
I  earned  it.  Besides,  it's  our  weddin'  anni 
versary!" 

"No.r  shouted  Pa,  "is  it?" 

"Twenty-nine  year  ago  to-day,"  answered  Ma. 

"Not  that  long,"  protested  Pa.  "Well,  yes, 
mebbe  it  is.  Whatever  put  that  into  your  head, 
Ma?" 

"Mis'  Hi  Lundy's  crystal  weddin',  I  suppose. 
Everybody  stay  in  here  a  minute,"  Ma  ordered; 
then  she  grabbed  up  the  water-set  and  disap 
peared  into  the  kitchen. 

"Opal,"  she  called,  "you're  wanted!" 

In  a  short  time  Ma  Flickinger  returned,  her 
new  pitcher  filled  with  lemonade,  and  with  her 
was  Opal,  carrying  a  tray  heaped  with  cake 
that  had  been  made  for  the  wedding. 

"I  didn't  intend  to  serve  refreshments," 
laughed  Ma,  "but  I  jest  had  to  after  that  pres- 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

Jule,  fetch  in  the  glasses:  begin  with  Pa 
firsT." 

"What  this  '11  do  to  my  digestion  I  don't 
know  and  I  don't  care!"  cried  Pa,  recklessly. 
"If  a  man  can't  relax  onct  in  twenty-nine  years 
he's  a  poor  stick." 

"I  guess  it  won't  hurt  nobody,"  said  Ma, 
"comin*  on  top  of  all  that  bread-and-butter  and 
coffee." 

"Let's  put  it  in  the  daily  paper,"  suggested 
Bill:  "  'Mis'  Flickinger  surprised  by  a  bob  load  of 
guests  and  presented  with  a  water-set,  and  re 
freshments  served.' ' 

"  Gee !"  exclaimed  Pa, "  wouldn't  that  be  great  ? ' ' 

"Great? — no,"  objected  Ma.  "Do  you  want 
Mis'  Hi  Lundy  a-swoopin'  down  on  her  present 
and  claimin'  it  ?  No ;  keep  still  about  our  little 
time.  It's  our  own  business  if  we  want  to  do  a 
little  private  celebratin'." 

"A  private  celebration  with  no  thin'  stronger 
than  lemonade  never  broke  up  a  family  yet," 
moralized  Pa.  "And  this  is  a  celebration,"  he 
continued,  "that  means  summat!  Married 
twenty-nine  year,  and  never  knew  it;  a  twin 
lost  and  found,  and  never  knew  which  one; 
tipped  over  unexpected — a  long,  cold  ride;  and 
a  livery  team  driv  by  Providence  knows  who!" 


MIS'    HI    LUNDY'S    PRESENT 

"I  dunno  but  it's  nicer  to  have  our  weddin' 
celebration  like  this,"  reflected  Ma — "all  of  a 
sudden,  no  fuss,  no  feathers;  and  I'll  bet  Mis' 
Hi  Lundy,  with  all  her  nice  presents  that  she's 
raked  and  scraped  to  git,  ain't  a  bit  happier 
than  I  be  with  this  one." 

"I'll  bet  the  nicest  present  Mis'  Lundy  got 
she  never  see,"  affirmed  Pa.  "I'll  bet  you,  Ma, 
that  it's  right  here  on  Mis'  Flickinger's  dinin'- 
room  table." 


VII 

BUTCH     FANNER'S     GOLD-MINE 

'  ¥  T   TELL,  here  we  are  ag'in,"  said  Pa  Flick- 
\/\/    inger,   in  a   grumbling  voice,   as   the 
family  sat  down  to  Thanksgiving  din 
ner  at  the  home  of  Mandy  Fanner,  his  eldest 
daughter,  a  few  days  after  the  sleigh-ride. 

For  various  reasons  not  all  of  the  family  could 
be  present;  but  there  were  Ma  and  Pa  Flick- 
inger,  Jed  and  Opal,  and  Jule  and  Milo,  also 
their  twins,  Janice  and  Jasper,  making  a  crowded 
table  in  the  stuffy  little  sitting-room,  where  meals 
were  served  on  all  special  occasions. 

"Of  all  celebrations  this  here  is  the  dangest," 
went  on  Pa  Flickinger.  "Jest  because  Mandy 's 
man  sent  her  a  dirty  scrap  of  paper  from  the 
Klondike  two  years  or  more  ago,  sayin'  that 
he'd  be  home  Thanksgivin',  then  Mandy  must 
git  up  a  swell  dinner  annual  in  Butch  Fanner's 
honor,  expectin'  every  minute  that  Butch  '11 
walk  in.  If  women  ain't  the  most  curious — " 

136 


BUTCH    FANNER'S    GOLD-MINE 

"I  dunno  a  thing  to  be  thankful  for,"  broke  in 
Ma  Flickinger,  her  thin  face  lined  with  anxious 
thought.  "Here's  Mandy  —  her  man's  dead, 
probably;  leastways,  she'll  never  see  him  ag'in; 
and  if  he  ain't  dead,  why  don't  he  write? 
And  the  feller  that  runs  Fanner's  butcher-shop, 
he's  cheatin'  her  all  the  time.  And  now  Milo's 
goin'  to  be  laid  up  for  a  month  or  more  with  a 
sprained  foot." 

"And  it  ain't  only  havin'  a  cross  man  under 
foot  for  six  wreeks,"  worried  Jule,  "but  what 
worries  me  most  is  havin'  no  money  for  rent, 
no  money  for  the  doctor's  bill,  no  money  for 
nothin' ;  and  Christmas  a-comin',  and  the  twinses 
expectin'  Santa  Claus." 

' '  Mebbe  your  Pa  can  squeeze  out  a  little  money 
for  you  to  come  and  go  on,"  consoled  Ma. 

"Pa  needn't  do  no  such  thing,"  dissented 
Jule,  "  'cause  Pa's  got  all  he  can  do  to  keep  his 
own  family  goin'." 

"I  don't  think  much  of  this  here  idea  of  givin' 
thanks  for  nothin',"  growled  Pa,  dishing  out 
great  plates  of  mashed  potatoes  and  turkey  and 
gravy  for  the  family;  "I  ain't  so  much  of  a 
hypocrite  that  I  can  thank  the  Lord  for  what  I 
ain't  got." 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  turkey?     Ain't 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

you  thankful  for  that?"  struck  in  Jed,  vigor 
ously  attacking  a  drumstick. 

"That  only  comes  along  of  Mandy  ownin'  a 
butcher-shop;  nothin'  great  in  that,"  answered 
his  father. 

"It  don't  make  things  no  better,  though,  to 
fret  over  'em  continual,"  said  Milo,  a  trifle 
querulously.  He  was  a  drab  little  man  with  a 
mild,  self  -  depreciating  manner,  but  what  he 
lacked  in  initiative  was  fully  supplied  by  his 
strenuous  wife. 

"Who  frets  in  this  family,  I'd  like  to  know," 
cried  Jule,  in  an  aggrieved  tone,  "if  you 
don't?  Pa,  the  twins  '11  take  a  little  turkey 
meat — no  knowin'  when  they'll  ever  see  any 
at  home." 

"Turkey  meat's  too  rich  for  'em,"  broke  in 
Ma  Flickinger;  "best  spoon  'em  out  a  little 
broth,  Pa.  Babies  ain't  ostriches." 

"When  I'm  blue,  I'm  blue,"  stated  Pa, 
pessimistically;  "and  I  don't  care  if  it  is  Thanks- 
givin'  Day."  And  he  helped  himself  to  an  un 
usually  large  supply  of  mashed  potatoes  and 
turkey. 

"Nobody's  bluer  than  I  be,"  sniffed  Mandy. 
"Here's  my  man  been  gone  for  'most  three  years, 
and  me  a-waitin'  and  a-watchin'." 

138 


BUTCH    FANNER'S    GOLD-MINE 

"Fanner  always  was  a  queer  chap,"  asserted 
Pa;  "a  sorter  loony,  visionary  feller — always 
a-talkin'  about  his  gold-mine  afore  he  went  to 
Klondike.  He'll  never  show  up  ag'in." 

"Hell  never  come  home  poor!"  claimed 
Mandy,  whose  fat,  freckled  face  was  blowsy 
with  crying.  "I  know  William  Fanner  better 
than  that.  But  it's  worse'n  a  funeral  not  to 
know  whether  he's  dead  or  alive." 

"Fanner  always  had  the  foolishest  plans,  and 
thought  that  he  could  carry  'em  out,  too ;  that's 
what  plays  hob  with  a  man,"  maintained  Pa, 
who  felt  no  delicacy  in  speaking  of  his  absent 
son-in-law's  peculiarities. 

"He  was  a  good-hearted  man,  though,"  spoke 
up  Milo. 

Curiously  enough,  they  all,  with  the  exception 
of  Mandy,  spoke  of  Fanner  in  the  past  tense. 
William  Fanner,  commonly  called  "Butch,"  was 
to  them  no  longer  anything  but  a  subject  for 
conversation. 

"But  what  gits  me  was  Butch  Fanner's  run- 
nin'  off  with  our  fifty  dollars  the  way  he  did," 
complained  Jule,  indignantly.  "There  me  and 
Milo  scraped  and  saved  that  fifty  dollars  and 
give  it  to  Fanner  to  invest  in  his  gold-mine,  and 
he  never  writ  one  word  about  it." 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"Land!"  exclaimed  Ma,  "wouldn't  that  fifty 
come  handy  now?" 

"It  'd  'a'  been  spent  long  afore  this,"  remarked 
Milo,  dismally. 

"Any  married  man  does  wrong  to  run  off  on 
a  wild-goose  chase  for  a  gold-mine,"  stated 
Pa,  with  gloomy  authority.  "  If  Panner  could 
leave  his  wife  and  his  business,  I  don't  see  how 
he  could  leave  his  kid." 

1 '  But  a  feller  never  can  tell  what  he  can  do  till 
he  tries,"  said  Milo,  quietly.  "There  wa'n't 
nothin'  criminal  in  Panner  goin'  to  Klondike  to 
see  if  he  couldn't  better  himself." 

"'Twa'n't  nothin'  bright,  neither,"  snapped 
Jule.  ' '  Whatever  makes  you  so  contrary,  Milo  ?" 

"Let  Milo  alone,"  reproved  Ma.  "Havin'  his 
foot  tied  up  like  a  lame  bear  don't  tend  to  make 
him  feel  extra  pert." 

"Butch  is  a-stayin'  away  till  he  makes  a  fort 
une,"  said  Mandy.  "But  land  knows  —  and 
he  knows,  too — that  I'd  ruther  have  him  back 
than  all  the  gold-mines  on  earth;  but  it's  jest 
his  pride." 

'"Twouldn't  hurt  him  none  to  write  where 
he  was,"  commented  Jule. 

"He's  a  waitin'  till  he  can  write  good  news," 
affirmed  Mandy. 

140 


BUTCH    FANNER'S    GOLD-MINE 

"I'd  laugh  if  your  man  'd  come  sneakin'  home 
without  a  cent,"  said  Jule. 

"He'll  never  do  it,"  replied  Mandy;  "but  I 
wish  the  land  he  would." 

"The  first  thing  I'd  say  to  him  would  be, 
'How  about  that  gold-mine,  Fanner?'"  laughed 
Pa.  "He  was  always  sure  he'd  locate  one." 

"He  never  seen  even  the  picture  of  a  gold 
mine,"  sneered  Jed;  "he  was  a  kinder  shiftluss 
guy." 

"And  I  nagged  him  every  day  of  my  life," 
lamented  Mandy;  "I  pestered  the  life  out'n 
him  about  little  things." 

"A  woman's  got  jest  as  much  right  to  talk 
as  a  man  has,"  Jule  sharply  informed  her. 

"I  don't  see  what  you've  got  two  extra  plates 
on  the  table  for,  Mandy?"  said  Ma,  critically. 

"For  the  land  sakes!"  cried  Mandy,  "where's 
that  young  one?  One  plate's  for  little  Butch, 
and  t'other's  for  his  father.  I  supposed  Butchie 
was  in  here  eatin'  with  the  rest  of  us." 

"I  thought  things  was  unusually  quiet,"  re 
marked  Pa. 

"You  might  know  that  when  things  is  ca'm 
in  the  house  that  Butch  is  out'n  it,"  observed 
Ma. 

Just  then  the  outside  door  burst  open,  and 
141 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

Butch  ran  into  the  room,  blubbering  and  wail 
ing  with  an  ardor  that  speedily  did  away  with 
the  idea  that  he  had  gotten  up  a  series  of  vocal 
exercises  for  stage  effect,  as  he  sometimes  did. 

"What  ails  you,  Butch?"  asked  Pa,  stopping 
between  bites  to  cast  an  inquiring  eye  on  his 
small  grandson. 

"The  Black  Man-n!"  sobbed  Butch.  "I  see 
the  Black  Man!" 

"Shucks,  Butch,"  laughed  Jed,  "ain't  you  old 
enough  to  know  better'n  that?" 

"I  saw  the  Black  Man  by  Snather's  hedge," 
claimed  Butch;  "he  lives  there." 

"He  don't,  neither,  live  there,"  contradicted 
Jed. 

"He  does,  too,"  disputed  Butch. 

"Who  said  so?"  questioned  Opal,  humoring 
him. 

"Gramma  said  so,"  triumphantly  returned 
Butch. 

"Mebbe  it  was  a  colored  man,"  suggested 
Opal. 

"'Twa'n't  no  nigger,"  denied  Butch. 

"What  'd  he  say,  Butch?"  inquired  Mandy. 

' '  He  gobbled — jest  gobbled.  I  couldn't  under 
stand  nothin',  his  teeth  chattered  so." 

"I  dunno,"  said  Pa  Flickinger,  solemnly, 
142 


BUTCH    FANNER'S    GOLD-MINE 

"whatever  '11  come  to  Butch;  his  seein'  the  Black 
Man  in  broad  daylight,  and  the  Black  Man 
a-gobblin'.  That  looks  like  summat  was  the 
matter  with  Butch.  The  next  time  the  Black 
Man  '11  git  that  boy,  sure!" 

"And  what  Santa  Claus  '11  say  to  all  this,  I 
don't  know,"  remarked  his  grandmother,  point 
edly. 

At  this  Butch  blubbered  afresh,  but  was  hur 
ried  down  to  the  table,  and  his  sobs  checked 
with  mashed  potatoes  and  turkey. 

Jed  pushed  back  his  chair  unceremoniously 
from  the  table  and  got  up.  "What's  struck 
you,  Jed?"  inquired  Pa. 

"I'm  goin'  out  to  find  what  scared  the  kid," 
answered  Jed. 

"Jed  can't  set  still  long  enough  to  eat,"  com 
mented  Ma  Flickinger,  as  her  son  left  the  house. 

"He  ain't  got  no  manners,  gittin'  up  afore  the 
toothpicks  is  passed,"  criticised  Jule. 

"There'll  be  swell  doin's  if  William  Fanner 
ever  does  come  home,"  declared  Mandy,  return 
ing  to  the  former  subject  of  their  conversation; 
"we'll  hike  off'n  this  old  street  and  buy  us  a  swell 
place  the  first  thing." 

"If  he'd  a-found  a  gold-mine,  you  might  of," 
reluctantly  admitted  Ma. 

J43 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"If  he  come  home  and  hadn't  found  a  gold 
mine,"  grinned  Pa,  "we'd  give  him  the  laugh; 
but  you  can  take  my  word  for  what  it's  worth, 
Panner's  a  goner." 

The  back  door  was  noisily  opened,  and  some 
one  was  heard  in  the  kitchen. 

"It's  Jed  a-returnin'  with  the  Black  Man," 
Pa  confidentially  assured  the  apprehensive  Butch. 

"Jed,  you  tromp  as  heavy  as  if  you  had  four 
feet,"  complained  Ma. 

"Here's  the  Black  Man,  Mandy!"  shouted 
Jed,  in  a  husky,  important  voice,  at  the  same 
time  pushing  a  gaunt,  bearded,  poorly  dressed 
man  into  the  little  sitting-room. 

"William!     Oh,  William!"  cried  Mandy. 

"Land,  I  thought  you  was  dead  and  buried 
long  afore  this!"  exclaimed  Ma,  in  an  awed 
voice. 

"Shake!"  welcomed  Pa  Flickinger,  pounding 
the  man  excitedly  on  the  back;  and  Milo  hob 
bled  over  on  his  crutch  with  outstretched  hand. 

For  there  was  William  Panner,  scarcely  recog 
nizable  by  the  astounded  family,  looking  like  a 
common  tramp,  embracing  his  wife  and  the 
surprised  and  disgruntled  Butch,  who  still  half 
believed  that  his  father  was  really  the  Black 
Man  that  lived  in  Snather's  hedge. 

144 


BUTCH    FANNER'S    GOLD-MINE 

Ma  Flickinger,  who  was  crying  for  joy,  ran  to 
the  kitchen  to  stir  the  fire  and  warm  the  re 
mainder  of  the  turkey  dinner,  while  Pa  and 
Milo  openly  wiped  their  eyes.  And  Jule  took 
occasion,  during  the  confusion,  to  divide  an 
extra  piece  of  mince  pie  for  the  twins. 

''And  how  Opal's  growed,"  spoke  up  Fanner, 
"and  Jed,  too;  I  thought  first  he  was  his  big 
brother  Bill — only  he  ain't  so  freckled." 

"In  the  summer  he  is,"  informed  Opal. 

"No  more'n  you,"  retorted  Jed,  gruffly. 

"Freckles  run  in  the  family,"  remarked  Ma, 
coming  in  with  a  steaming  platter  of  meat; 
"they  git  'em  from  Pa." 

"And  here's  the  twinses  that  Mandy  writ  me 
about,"  noticed  Panner. 

"They  can  walk;  they're  under  foot  all  the 
time;  and  they  can  say  things,"  Jule  proudly 
informed  him. 

"We've  been  a-keepin'  Thanksgivin'  Day  for 
you  pretty  nigh  ever  since  you  went  away, 
Panner,  in  this  here  house;  and  Mandy's  been 
as  constant  to  your  memory  as  a  hen  on  a  glass 
egg — and  I  can't  say  more,"  confided  Pa,  warmly. 

"Did  you  find  a  gold-mine,  Butch?  How 
much  money  did  you  bring  home?"  inquired 
Jule,  boldly. 

MS 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

Fanner,  who  was  by  this  time  eagerly  finish 
ing  the  remains  of  the  turkey  dinner  that  had 
been  prepared  in  his  honor,  looked  helplessly 
about  the  room  at  his  wife's  folks,  and  the  high 
elation  of  his  happy  return  died  out  of  his  face, 
leaving  it  old  and  worn  and  blank. 

"Jule!"  burst  out  Ma,  in  a  flare  of  sympathy 
for  the  returned  miner,  "ain't  you  got  no  sense, 
let  alone  manners,  askin'  such  personal  questions  ?" 

"We  don't  care  what  Butch  Fanner's  brought 
back,"  thundered  Pa. 

"Didn't  expect  me  to  bring  back  much,  did 
you,  after  that  last  letter?"  asked  Fanner. 

"Bring  back  nothin'!"  cried  Pa,  heartily. 
"Sure  we  did  —  bring  yourself  back;  that's 
what  Mandy  wanted  to  see  worst.  Why,  say, 
Fanner,  gold  ain't  nothin'  alongside  of  folks." 

"Not  to  me,"  answered  Panner,  brightening; 
"but  outsiders  '11  say,  'He  come  home  without 
a  cent.'" 

"Do  you  live  for  outsiders?"  inquired  Pa, 
scornfully.  "Is  it  outsiders  that  help  a  man 
when  he's  down?" 

"If  anybody  asks  me  about  Butch  Fanner's 
gold-mine  ag'in,  I'll  tell  'em  to  shut  up,"  de 
clared  Jule,  loyally.  "I  hate  folks  that's  always 
a-screwin'  things  out'n  you  by  main  force." 

146 


BUTCH    FANNER'S    GOLD-MINE 

"I've  been  mostly  a-gettin'  up  to  Klondike 
and  a-comin'  back,"  Fanner  explained;  "I've 
never  had  a  chanct  to  dig  gold — not  a  smell. 
And  I  saw  I  wa'n't  cut  out  for  the  frozen  North ; 
I  wa'n't  prepared  for  it.  And  I  had  no  idee  of 
what  I  was  a-goin'  to  run  up  against;  but  I  am 
cut  out  for  Michigan.  And  I  says  to  myself, 
as  I  was  clearly  out'n  my  place,  I'd  better  make 
tracks  to  git  back  into  it." 

"You  showed  sense,"  cut  in  Ma  Flickinger, 
nodding  her  head  approvingly. 

"But  some  '11  say  that  as  long  as  I  couldn't 
make  it  go  up  North  that  I  did  the  easiest  thing 
in  comin'  home,"  resumed  Fanner,  thrashing 
over  all  the  arguments  that  he  had  worn  thread 
bare  in  the  long  months  of  his  pilgrimage. 

"Some  'ud  say  white  was  yallow,"  broke  in 
Jule. 

"When  I  got  up  there  and  saw  that  there 
wa'n't  no  chanct  for  a  greeny  like  me,"  continued 
Fanner,  "I  blamed  myself  for  comin'  till  I  was 
on  the  p'int  of  suicide.  And  then  I  got  scairt 
for  fear  I  would  kill  myself,  and  I  jest  talked 
sense  to  number  one,  and  I  says  to  myself, 
'Butch  Fanner,  you  was  a  blamed  fool  to  come 
up  here,  but  what  of  that?  You're  here.  And 
now's  the  time  you  need  friends.' 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"And  I  went  on  to  say  to  myself,  convincin' 
like — for  I'm  quite  a  jay  at  argument  when  I 
git  started,  and  because  I  was  kinder  queer  and 
leery  for  want  of  food,  and  was  tumble  home 
sick — I  says:  'Gimme  your  paw,  Butch  Pan- 
ner,  I'm  your  friend  if  the  whole  world  goes 
back  on  you.'  And  I  jest  made  myself  cheer 
up. 

"And  after  that,"  concluded  Fanner,  "I  didn't 
say  nothin'  mean  to  myself.  For  I  had  meant 
to  do  right  in  the  first  place  in  goin'  to  the 
Klondike.  I  wanted  to  make  a  mint  of  money 
for  Mandy  and  the  kid ;  but  I  failed,  and  here 
I  be." 

"Safe  and  sound  among  your  own  folks," 
smiled  Pa.  "And  you  talk  as  if  you  had  done 
a  criminal  act  in  goin'  off  to  t'other  end  of  the 
world  to  see  if  you  couldn't  better  yourself." 

"I  always  kinder  thought,"  wrent  on  Fanner, 
"that  there  wa'n't  no  chanct  for  a  poor  man  in 
Michigan;  but,  say,  I've  learned  a  pile  up  there. 
Pretty  nigh  every  other  man  I  met  thought  he 
hadn't  had  a  chanct  in  his  home  State,  and  them 
dissatisfied  fellers  didn't  all  come  from  Michigan, 
neither." 

"It  takes  a  man,  Fanner,  to  do  what  you've 
done,"  said  Pa,  curiously  moved  from  his  usual 

148 


BUTCH    FANNER'S    GOLD-MINE 

stoical  indifference  by  the  returned  traveller's 
story,  ' '  to  come  right  home  plumb  in  the  face  of 
failure.  But,  shucks,  you're  jest  a  young  man 
yet,  nor  more'n  forty;  you'll  soon  make  good 
ag'in." 

"Oh,  I  ain't  discouraged;  Lord,  no!"  said 
Fanner,  heartily.  "  I'm  encouraged.  Here's  my 
home,  here's  my  wife  and  the  little  feller  to  work 
for.  What  more  could  a  decent  man  want?" 

"And  the  meat-market's  jest  sp'ilin'  for  you. 
That  man  '11  never  fool  Mandy  ag'in,"  chuckled 
Pa. 

"I'll  run  the  meat-market  with  profit,"  prom 
ised  Fanner,  confidently;  "I  always  did.  That's 
where  I  made  enough  to  go  North  on.  And  I 
come  home,"  he  added,  with  conscious  pride, 
"sound  in  body  —  hands,  feet,  eyes,  limbs, 
orgins  —  all  here.  Why,  I've  saw  men  come 
stringin'  home  from  Klondike  maimed,  froze, 
off  in  their  minds,  'most  blind — knocked  out  in 
a  dozen  ways.  Say,  it's  worse'n  war  up  North ; 
for  if  you  git  hurt  in  battle  there's  a  kinder  glory 
and  honor  tied  on  to  it,  but  up  there  it's  all  up 
with  you  if  you  fail.  But  I'm  as  hard  as  a  knot 
from  travel  and  exposure." 

"Was  you  long  on  the  way  back?"  inquired 
Milo,  who  sat  nursing  his  lame  foot  on  a  stool. 
it  149 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"Long  on  the  way?"  cried  Fanner.  "Say, 
folks,  I  sweat  my  way  back  from  the  Klondike — 
every  step.  It's  been  jest  fourteen  months  since 
I  started,  right  after  my  last  letter.  I  worked 
my  way  on  the  boat  and  tramped  a  good  deal  of 
the  road  after  I  struck  the  States." 

"You've  wonderful  endurance,  Fanner,"  ad 
mired  Pa. 

"You  sure  come  out  on  top,"  grinned  Jed, 
appreciatively. 

"And  to  think,  William,  of  your  hatin'  to 
come  in  when  you  got  here  at  last,"  said  Mandy, 
fondly,  "and  a-hangin'  'round  Old  Man  Snather's 
hedge,  and  a-tryin'  to  explain  yourself  to  your 
own  little  young  one,  and  him  a-thinkin'  you 
was  the  Black  Man — after  all  you've  gone 
through!" 

"If  it  hadn't  a-been  for  Jed  here  I  dunno 
when  I'd  'a'  had  the  heart  to  come  in,"  Panner 
told  them. 

"You  saw  somethin'  besides  Michigan,  any 
way,"  said  Jule,  a  little  enviously. 

"I  should  say,  yes,1'  remarked  Panner,  with 
emphasis ;  "I  met  all  kind  of  fellers ;  but  though 
I  mixed  in  queer  company,  I  never  was  what 
you'd  call  a  bum,  never  touched  liquor,  nor 
cards,  nor  worse;  but  if  temptations  did  git 

150 


BUTCH    FANNER'S    GOLD-MINE 

a-loomin'  up  through  my  bein'  extra  blue,  I'd 
say,  'Fanner,  there's  your  folks.'  Then  I'd 
work  to  git  a  little  nearer  'em." 

"What  a  mind  you've  got,  Fanner,"  ap 
proved  Pa;  "if  it  hadn't  been  for  your  plannin' 
things  out  the  way  you  did,  you'd  'a'  dropped 
by  the  wayside — sure." 

"I  never  doubted  for  a  minute  but  what  you 
was  a-doin'  the  right  thing,"  said  Mandy, 
loyally. 

"We  all  knowed  you  was  a-doin'  your  best," 
testified  Ma,  generously;  "leastways,  if  we 
didn't  quite  exactly  know  it  while  you  was 
away,"  she  qualified,  truthfully,  "we  know  it 
now.  And  I  always  said  moral  courage  was  the 
highest  there  is,  and,  William  Fanner,  you've 
got  it." 

"Ma  Flickinger,"  said  the  returned  gold- 
hunter,  with  a  radiant  look  that  no  grizzly 
beard  nor  travel-stains  could  quite  conceal, 
"them's  the  best  words  I  ever  heard.  I  never 
knew  what  it  was  to  have  folks  afore  this  ex 
perience;  of  course,  I  had  'em,  but  I  didn't 
appreciate  'em.  I'm  a  poor  man,  but  I'm  rich 
in  folks. 

"And  there  ain't  but  one  blot  on  this  here 
reunion,"  he  added,  his  face  lengthening  dis- 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

mally,  "and  that's  the  fifty  dollars  of  Milo's 
that  I  ain't  had  the  face  to  speak  of  till  now. 
Milo,  I'm  awful  sorry  about  your  money." 

"Forgit  it,"  said  Milo,  kindly,  "it's  all  past 
and  gone." 

"It  was  Milo's  fault  in  the  first  place,"  ac 
cused  Jule;  "I  never  wanted  it  put  into  mines, 
and  I  told  Milo  a  thousand  times  that  he'd 
lose  it." 

"I  always  kept  it  here,"  said  Fanner,  feeling 
in  an  inner  pocket.  "And  I  never  saw  no  good 
chanct  to  invest  it.  I  couldn't  put  your  money 
in  a  wildcat  scheme  that  I  wa'n't  sure  of,  like  I 
did  the  three  hundred  of  my  own  that  I  lost. 
You  might  'a'  had  it  out  a-earnin'  interest  all 
this  time."  And  he  handed  over  a  small  roll 
of  bills  to  the  astonished  Milo. 

"Land  o'  Goshen!  Butch  Fanner,  is  this  a 
joke?"  cried  Ma,  incredulously. 

"Cast  your  greenbacks  on  the  waters!"  shout 
ed  Pa,  excitedly. 

"Didn't  you  need  it,  Butch?  it  might  'a' 
helped  you  home,"  said  Milo. 

"'Twa'n't  mine,"  answered  Panner,  simply. 

"It  '11  pay  the  rent!"  shrilled  Jule,  hysterically. 

"And  the  doctor's  bill!"  added  Milo,  with  a 
happy  face. 

152 


I      ALWAYS      KEPT      IT      HERE" 


BUTCH    FANNER'S   GOLD-MINE 

"And  the  twinses  can  have  a  Santa  Claus 
now!"  exulted  Jule. 

"Say,  folks,"  inquired  Pa,  jovially,  "ain't 
this  a  regular  story  -  book  Thanksgivin'  ? — a 
returned  traveller,  a  large,  unexpected  sum  of 
money  come  to  a  laid-up  man,  and  a  whole 
family  chirked  up  by  entertainin'  the  Black 
Man  unawares!" 

' '  You  ain't  a-missin'  your  gold-mine  much,  be 
you?"  inquired  Milo,  kindly,  of  Butch  Fanner, 
who  was  grinning  at  Pa  Flickinger's  enthusiasm. 

"My  gold-mine  is  the  Flickinger  family,  in- 
cludin'  Mandy  and  the  little  feller,  and  I  never 
knew  it  afore,"  returned  Fanner,  heartily. 
"  Lord,  how  I  dreaded  to  come  in!  But  I  might 
'a'  knowed  jest  how  you  folks  'd  act." 


VIII 

JED,    THE    GENTLEMAN     FARMER 


fellers  are  always  grumblin'  about 
the  rich  and  the  poor  —  and  predictin' 
war,"  observed  Pa  Flickinger,  one  even 
ing  after  supper,  as  the  family  were  seated  about 
the  dining-room  table,  Ma  with  her  sewing, 
Opal  with  her  school-books,  and  Jed  marking 
off  imaginary  fields  on  the  table-cloth  with 
toothpicks.  ' 

"Are  you  turnin'  daft,  Jed,"  cried  Ma,  "to 
amuse  yourself  with  kindergarten  truck?" 

"Naw,"  grunted  Jed,  and  went  on  fencing. 

"As  I  said  afore,"  continued  Pa,  "some  are 
always  a-complainin'  about  the  rich.  Why,  in 
the  fattory  where  me  and  Jed  work  there's  al 
ways  a  few  disgruntled  tykes  growlin'  indistinct 
about  the  boss  —  and  thinkin'  they  ain't  treated 
right  by  folks  that  has  more  money  than  they 
have." 

"And  it's  enough  to  make  a  feller  grumble  to 


JED,    THE    GENTLEMAN    FARMER 

see  rich  folks  a-rollin'  by  high-headed  in  their 
automobiles,  and  us  poor  folks  a-scratchin'  for 
enough  to  eat,"  claimed  Ma. 

"But  it's  jest  as  much  us  poor  folks'  place  to 
treat  the  rich  right  as  't  is  t'other  way,"  as 
serted  Pa.  "Don't  it  help  as  much  toward 
good  feelin'  between  man  and  man  for  me  to  go 
a  little  out'n  my  way  to  give  the  boss  a  pleasant 
good-mornin'  as  it  does  for  the  boss  always  to 
have  to  make  the  first  break  ?  The  boss  's  got 
money;  but  that's  no  sign  he  don't  need  what 
money  can't  buy — and  that's  good-will." 

"'Tain't  worryin'  the  boss  or  any  other  big 
bug  whether  you  speak  to  'em  or  not,"  an 
swered  Ma,  complacently. 

"That  ain't  the  p'int,"  disagreed  Pa;  "'cause 
you're  poor,  don't  give  you  no  right  to  be  un 
civil.  And  I  don't  begrudge  the  boss  his  auto 
mobile,  neither — he's  earned  it." 

"Then  why  don't  you  have  one  yourself?" 
inquired  Ma,  sarcastically.  "You've  certainly 
earned  one." 

"No,"  denied  Pa,  "I  ain't,  and  I  ain't  liable 
to.  I've  earned  bread  and  butter  and  a  home, 
but  I  ain't  never  earned  what  the  boss  has." 

"Why  ain't  you?"  demanded  Ma.  "You've 
always  worked  like  a  slave." 


VIII 

JED,    THE    GENTLEMAN     FARMER 


fellers  are  always  grumblin'  about 
the  rich  and  the  poor  —  and  predictin' 
war,"  observed  Pa  Flickinger,  one  even 
ing  after  supper,  as  the  family  were  seated  about 
the  dining-room  table,  Ma  with  her  sewing, 
Opal  with  her  school-books,  and  Jed  marking 
off  imaginary  fields  on  the  table-cloth  with 
toothpicks.  " 

"Are  you  turnin'  daft,  Jed,"  cried  Ma,  "to 
amuse  yourself  with  kindergarten  truck?" 

"Naw,"  grunted  Jed,  and  went  on  fencing. 

"As  I  said  afore,"  continued  Pa,  "some  are 
always  a-complainin'  about  the  rich.  Why,  in 
the  fattory  where  me  and  Jed  work  there's  al 
ways  a  few  disgruntled  tykes  growlin'  indistinct 
about  the  boss  —  and  thinkin'  they  ain't  treated 
right  by  folks  that  has  more  money  than  they 
have." 

"And  it's  enough  to  make  a  feller  grumble  to 


JED,    THE    GENTLEMAN    FARMER 

see  rich  folks  a-rollin'  by  high-headed  in  their 
automobiles,  and  us  poor  folks  a-scratchin'  for 
enough  to  eat,"  claimed  Ma. 

"But  it's  jest  as  much  us  poor  folks'  place  to 
treat  the  rich  right  as  't  is  t'other  way,"  as 
serted  Pa.  "Don't  it  help  as  much  toward 
good  feelin'  between  man  and  man  for  me  to  go 
a  little  out'n  my  way  to  give  the  boss  a  pleasant 
good-mornin'  as  it  does  for  the  boss  always  to 
have  to  make  the  first  break  ?  The  boss  's  got 
money;  but  that's  no  sign  he  don't  need  what 
money  can't  buy — and  that's  good-will." 

"'Tain't  worryin'  the  boss  or  any  other  big 
bug  whether  you  speak  to  'em  or  not,"  an 
swered  Ma,  complacently. 

"That  ain't  the  p'int,"  disagreed  Pa;  "'cause 
you're  poor,  don't  give  you  no  right  to  be  un 
civil.  And  I  don't  begrudge  the  boss  his  auto 
mobile,  neither — he's  earned  it." 

"Then  why  don't  you  have  one  yourself?" 
inquired  Ma,  sarcastically.  "You've  certainly 
earned  one." 

"No,"  denied  Pa,  "I  ain't,  and  I  ain't  liable 
to.  I've  earned  bread  and  butter  and  a  home, 
but  I  ain't  never  earned  what  the  boss  has." 

"Why  ain't  you?"  demanded  Ma.  "You've 
always  worked  like  a  slave." 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"Well,  'cause  the  boss  has  more  brains  than 
I  have,  and  I  ain't  ashamed  to  say  so;  and 
more'n  that,  his  brains  are  developed.  They 
was  put  through  a  course  of  sprouts  when  that 
boy  was  young.  He  hadn't  a  cent  more  than  I 
had  when  we  was  kids,  but  I  always  was  a  kinder 
careless  cuss  —  out  with  the  boys  and  ram- 
cattin'  half  the  night,  never  savin'  a  cent.  But 
the  boss  he  was  different;  when  I  was  raisin' 
Cain,  he  was  a-workin'  his  way  through  college." 

"You  might  'a'  done  the  same,  Pa,"  struck  in 
Jed,  unexpectedly,  squinting  at  his  toothpick 
fence. 

"No,  I  couldn't  'a'  done  what  the  boss  done," 
answered  Pa,  solemnly.  "I  didn't  have  it  in 
me;  I  used  to  be  like  Mandy's  Butch,  only  more 
so.  I  was  a  fool  in  kid's  clothin'." 

"You're  always  a-braggin'  about  the  boss," 
complained  Ma;  "but,  so  fur  as  I  can  see,  he 
never  done  you  no  special  service — you  ain't 
even  one  of  his  favorites." 

"He  does  me  justice,"  stoutly  maintained  Pa, 
"and  Mr.  Peyton  he  ain't  got  no  favorites." 

"Some  gits  promoted  right  along,  though,  I 
notice,"  observed  Ma,  pointedly. 

"That's  his  business  and  theirn — not  mine," 
declared  Pa.  "And  there's  lots  of  'em  along 

156 


JED,    THE    GENTLEMAN    FARMER 

with  me  that  don't  git  promoted,  and  them  as 
does  git  fatter  pay  envelopes  earn  it — they  have 
something  the  boss  needs,  and  he  pays  for  it." 

"Seftie  Woods  is  goin'  to  school  to  the  Agri 
cultural  College,"  informed  Jed,  abruptly.  "Sef- 
tie's  goin'  to  learn  to  be  a  farmer." 

"I  always  thought  afore  that  Seftie  was  a 
kinder  sensible  guy,"  remarked  Pa. 

"He  is,"  asserted  Jed,  aggressively. 

"He  shows  it,"  laughed  Pa,  "goin'  to  school 
to  learn  to  farm;  next  thing  somebody  '11  be 
goin'  to  school  to  learn  to  breathe — or  to  eat." 

"Sef tie's  goin'  to  be  a  Gentleman  Farmer," 
put  in  Opal,  unexpectedly. 

"A  gentleman  whicher?"  inquired  her  father, 
facetiously.  "I  never  knew  afore  that  the  two 
went  together." 

"He's  goin'  to  college  to  learn  to  farm  right. 
Can't  I  go,  too,  Pa?"  asked  Jed,  boldly,  who 
had  said  it  over  so  many  times  in  mind  that  he 
had  at  last  gotten  courage  to  say  it  aloud. 

"You  go,  Jed!  Are  you  crazy?"  burst  out  Ma. 
"Whatever  put  that  into  your  head?" 

"I  always  wanted  to  be  a  farmer,"  declared 
the  boy. 

"Then  be  one,"  said  Pa.  "Goin'  to  college 
won't  help  you  none." 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

teach  the  dead  languages.  Now,  the  Latin  name 
of  punkins  might  help  you  wonderful  in  your 
farmin'.  And  you  and  Seftie  could  talk  Greek, 
so  's  the  hired  man  wouldn't  understand  your 
gab.  And  Greek  swear  words  for  mules  might 
come  handy — anyway,  you'd  have  'em." 

"  I  tell  you,  Pa,"  cried  the  exasperated  boy, 
"I  don't  have  to  take  them  things!" 

"Not  take  the  dead  languages?"  inquired  Pa, 
incredulously.  "You're  'way  off;  you'll  have  to 
take  whatever  they  give  you." 

"They'll  teach  us  how  to  farm  there — how 
to  do  things  right,"  declared  Jed. 

Pa  shook  his  head. 

"Jed  could  learn  to  be  a  Gentleman  Farmer 
jest  as  well  as  Seftie  Woods,"  spoke  up  Opal, 
who  for  once  was  in  sympathy  with  her  brother. 

"No,  he  couldn't,"  objected  their  mother. 
"Seftie  Woods  is  sm?~t  to  begin  with,  and  Jed 
is  naturally  dumb.  He  never  's  even  been  to 
high-school,  and  here  he  wants  to  go  to  college." 

"Besides,"  cried  Pa,  triumphantly,  as  a 
clincher,  "a  dumb-head  like  Jed  don't  know 
enough  to  git  into  a  college;  and  if  he  did 
manage  to  git  in,  it  'd  take  him  a  natural  life 
time  to  git  through." 

"But  I  don't  need  no  entrance  examination, 
1 60 


JED,    THE    GENTLEMAN    FARMER 

Pa ;  I  jest  want  to  go  a  year  or  two  and  specialize, 
as  Seftie  calls  it — git  a  little  to  help  me  out." 

"  No  college  lets  a  feller  browse  around  in 
side  it  like  that,"  asserted  Pa.  "  No,  sir!  It  takes 
a  world  and  all  of  stuffin'  to  git  in,  and  then 
you  have  to  plank  right  through  without  feed  in' 
till  you  graduate.  Cut  it  out,  Jed;  you  don't 
want  to  be  no  Gentleman  Farmer." 

"That's  some  of  Opal's  nonsense,"  muttered 
Jed,  as  he  started  off  to  bed.  "  But  I  want  to 
learn  to  farm,  and  I  will,  too,  jest  you  wait  and  see !" 

"I'll  wait,"  laughed  Pa,  "but  I'll  never  see 
no  Gentleman  Farmer  in  this  family.  We've 
always  been  poor,  but  we've  never  been  ridicu 
lous." 

"  'Tain't  such  a  bad  plan,  that  wild  idee  of 
Jed's  about  goin'  to  school  to  learn  to  farm," 
said  Ma,  reflectively,  after  the  children  had  gone 
to  bed.  ^ 

"'Tain't  a  bad  plan,"  admitted  Pa,  "but  it's 
worse:  it  ain't  possible." 

"  No,  we  can't  afford  to  board  and  clothe  Jed 
for  a  year  and  let  him  have  his  money,"  said 
Ma,  with  a  sigh. 

"No,  we  can't,"  responded  Pa;  "but  I  wisht 
we  could.  I  always  kinder  hankered  to  be  a 
farmer  jay  myself." 

161 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

teach  the  dead  languages.  Now,  the  Latin  name 
of  punkins  might  help  you  wonderful  in  your 
farmin'.  And  you  and  Seftie  could  talk  Greek, 
so  's  the  hired  man  wouldn't  understand  your 
gab.  And  Greek  swear  words  for  mules  might 
come  handy — anyway,  you'd  have  'em." 

"  I  tell  you,  Pa,"  cried  the  exasperated  boy, 
"I  don't  have  to  take  them  things!" 

"Not  take  the  dead  languages?"  inquired  Pa, 
incredulously.  "You're  'way  off;  you'll  have  to 
take  whatever  they  give  you." 

"They'll  teach  us  how  to  farm  there — how 
to  do  things  right,"  declared  Jed. 

Pa  shook  his  head. 

"Jed  could  learn  to  be  a  Gentleman  Farmer 
jest  as  well  as  Seftie  Woods,"  spoke  up  Opal, 
who  for  once  was  in  sympathy  with  her  brother. 

"No,  he  couldn't,"  objected  their  mother. 
"Seftie  Woods  is  sm?-t  to  begin  with,  and  Jed 
is  naturally  dumb.  He  never  's  even  been  to 
high-school,  and  here  he  wants  to  go  to  college." 

"Besides,"  cried  Pa,  triumphantly,  as  a 
clincher,  "a  dumb-head  like  Jed  don't  know 
enough  to  git  into  a  college;  and  if  he  did 
manage  to  git  in,  it  'd  take  him  a  natural  life 
time  to  git  through." 

"But  I  don't  need  no  entrance  examination, 
1 60 


JED,    THE    GENTLEMAN    FARMER 

Pa ;  I  jest  want  to  go  a  year  or  two  and  specialize, 
as  Seftie  calls  it — git  a  little  to  help  me  out." 

"  No  college  lets  a  feller  browse  around  in 
side  it  like  that,"  asserted  Pa.  "  No,  sir!  It  takes 
a  world  and  all  of  stuffin'  to  git  in,  and  then 
you  have  to  plank  right  through  without  feed  in' 
till  you  graduate.  Cut  it  out,  Jed;  you  don't 
want  to  be  no  Gentleman  Farmer." 

"That's  some  of  Opal's  nonsense,"  muttered 
Jed,  as  he  started  off  to  bed.  "  But  I  want  to 
learn  to  farm,  and  I  will,  too,  jest  you  wait  and  see !" 

"I'll  wait,"  laughed  Pa,  "but  I'll  never  see 
no  Gentleman  Farmer  in  this  family.  We've 
always  been  poor,  but  we've  never  been  ridicu 
lous." 

"  'Tain't  such  a  bad  plan,  that  wild  idee  of 
Jed's  about  goin'  to  school  to  learn  to  farm," 
said  Ma,  reflectively,  after  the  children  had  gone 
to  bed.  t 

"'Tain't  a  bad  plan,"  admitted  Pa,  "but  it's 
worse:  it  ain't  possible." 

"  No,  we  can't  afford  to  board  and  clothe  Jed 
for  a  year  and  let  him  have  his  money,"  said 
Ma,  with  a  sigh. 

"No,  we  can't,"  responded  Pa;  "but  I  wisht 
we  could.  I  always  kinder  hankered  to  be  a 
farmer  jay  myself." 

161 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

night.  Ma  dished  up  the  supper  with  an  extra 
flounce,  and  snapped  up  everybody  that  spoke 
to  her. 

"What's  the  matter,  Ma?"  asked  Pa,  genially. 
Whatever  had  happened  at  the  factory,  he  did 
not  seem  at  all  downcast. 

' '  What's  the  matter  ?' '  repeated  Ma.  ' '  Every 
thing!  Jed's  as  cross  as  a  bear  all  the  time, 
Opal's  gettin'  lazier  every  day  and  a  failin'  in 
her  lessons,  and  the  factory's  liable  to  shut 
down — " 

Still  Pa  was  one  large,  bland  smile. 

"What're  you  grinnin'  like  an  ape  for?"  in 
quired  Ma,  crossly. 

"'Cause  I've  got,"  cried  Pa,  delightedly,  "  '  the 
smile  that  won't  come  off!'  I  never  knew  afore 
that  there  was  any  truth  in  that  fool  sayin'." 

"I  never  see  the  truth  in  it,  and  never  will," 
said  Ma,  coldly. 

"Not  if  I  told  you  I  was  suddenly  raised  to 
'Supe?'" 

"No,  'cause  you  ain't." 

"Well,  I  am,"  affirmed  Pa,  emphatically. 

"What  of  that?"  flared  Ma,  bound  not  to  be 
pleased.  "Extra  worry,  and  the  men  a-gettin' 
down  on  you.  Nothin'  big  in  that." 

"I  git  double  pay,  though,"  added  Pa,  qrest- 
164 


Im. 


I'VE  GOT  THE  'SMILE  THAT  WON'T  COME  OFF'" 


JED,    THE    GENTLEMAN    FARMER 

fallen  to  think  his  wife  took  the  good  news  so 
apathetically. 

"What!"  exclaimed  Ma. 

"Double  pay,"  shouted  Pa,  "and  promoted 
for  faithfulness,  e-fish-ency,  and  long  service." 

"Then  Jed  can  go  to  school,"  said  Ma,  with  a 
face  as  bright  as  Pa's. 

"He  sure  can,"  laughed  Pa;  " ' Jed  Flickinger, 
Gentleman  Farmer,'  on  all  his  callin'  cards 
after  this." 

' '  How  on  earth  did  you  git  to  be  superintend 
ent?"  asked  Ma. 

"It  came  about  partly  through  Jed,"  an 
swered  Pa,  "for  Mr.  Peyton  says  to  me  one  day, 
'What's  the  matter  with  your  kid,  Flickinger? 
He  looks  glum  all  the  time  now,  like  he  ain't  feel- 
in'  well.'  Then  I  said,  'Jeddie's  got  a  notion  of 
goin'  to  college  to  learn  farmin',  but  we  can't 
see  our  way  to  send  him.'  'Good  thing,'  an 
swers  the  boss;  'I'll  bear  that  in  mind,  and 
mebbe  I  can  help  you  out.'  But  I  didn't  say 
nothin'  here  at  home,  for  I  didn't  see  what  he 
could  do." 

"The  boss  is  a  mighty  thoughtful  man,"  ad 
mired  Ma. 

"And  so,"  continued  Pa,  "when  this  here  big 
scrap  was  a-comin'  on  about  who  would  take 

167 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

Brown's  place,  the  boss  he  thought  of  me;  for 
he  had  to  have  a  man  without  enemies  among 
the  men,  and  one  that  he  could  trust  him 
self. 

"And  as  there  was  bound  to  be  a  bust-up  if 
either  of  the  men  that  was  a- try  in'  for  it  got  it, 
Mr.  Peyton  gits  'em  all  together  and  says,  '  Boys, 
how  '11  Flickinger  suit?'  Nobody  said  a  word 
back,  they  was  that  surprised. 

"Then  I  steps  out  and  says,  'Thank  you,  Mr. 
Peyton,  but  I  couldn't  possibly  take  a  position 
that  the  boys  didn't  want  me  to  have,  though 
I'd  be  glad  to  do  it  for  you.' 

"And  I'll  be  blamed  if  the  boys  didn't  cheer, 
and  come  crowdin'  'round  and  shakin'  hands — 
the  scrappers  on  both  sides — and  things  got 
smoothed  out.  And  the  boss  agreed  to  raise  the 
wages  jest  as  soon  as  business  picked  up.  And 
the  next  thing  I  knew  I  was  '  Supe '  of  my  de 
partment  with  double  pay." 

"Land,  Pa,  what  a  honor!"  said  Ma. 

"You  see,"  resumed  Pa,  modestly,  "I  ain't 
considered  a  dangerous  man;  nobody's  afraid 
I'll  use  my  position  underhanded  to  hurt  any 
body  else.  I'm  sort  of  looked  on  as  a  wishie- 
washie  feller  that  don't  like  to  fight;  but  I  can 
tell  you,  Ma,  that  it  takes  more  backbone  some- 

168 


JED,    THE    GENTLEMAN    FARMER 

times  to  keep  out'n  a  fight  than  it  does  to  git 
into  one." 

' '  I  guess  the  secret  of  the  choice  is  that  you're 
the  right  man  for  the  place,"  said  Ma,  loyally; 
"but  I  begin  to  think  that  the  boss  is  pretty 
nigh  as  white  as  you've  painted  him." 

"Shucks,"  grinned  Pa,  "a  dozen  others  could 
'a'  done  as  well;  but  they  can't  nobody  do  bet 
ter,"  he  acknowledged,  with  conscious  pride, 
"for  I  understand  the  work.  And  now  Jed  can 
go  to  school — hey,  Jed?" 

Jed  said  nothing. 

"Whoever  'd  'a'  thought  Jed  'd  'a'  took  to 
learnin',"  remarked  Ma,  wonderingly.  "I  dun- 
no  where  he  gits  it  from." 

"When  '11  Jed  start  to  college?"  asked  Opal, 
practically. 

"I  ain't  a-goin'  to  no  college,"  spoke  up  Jed, 
sullenly. 

"What's  got  into  the  kid?"  cried  Pa,  in  as 
tonishment. 

"Nothin'  more'n  ordinary,"  answered  Ma; 
"he's  mad  'cause  he  couldn't  have  his  money 
when  he  first  ast;  now  he's  sulky." 

"I  could  take  that  out'n  a  kid,"  hinted  Pa, 
darkly. 

"You  couldn't  lick  nothin'  out'n  Jed,"  re- 
169 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

turned  Ma,  resignedly;    "he's  jest  as  stubborn 
as  you  be,  Pa.     Let  him  alone." 

"Well,  he'll  go  whether  he  wants  to  or  not, 
now,"  growled  Pa,  "for  the  boss  promoted  me  for 
that  very  thing.  He'll  save  his  money  and  go." 

"I  don't  want  to  go,"  grumbled  Jed. 

"Save  your  money  anyway,  Jeddie,  and 
mebbe  you'll  feel  different  about  it  next  fall," 
advised  Ma,  soothingly. 

"Jed's  too  sensible  a  kid  to  let  a  chance  like 
that  slip  by,"  observed  Pa,  with  a  wink  at  Ma 
and  Opal. 

"If  I  go  to  school  't  won't  be  'cause  I'm  soft- 
soaped,"  said  Jed. 

"Land,  it  makes  a  feller  feel  like  summat," 
glowed  Pa,  "to  think  of  one  of  his  own  kids 
a-goin'  to  college!  And  as  fur  as  the  dead 
languages  are  concerned,  I  dunno  but  Jed  is  as 
husky  to  tackle  'em  as  any  other  kid." 

"He  always  was  stubbed.  But  where  'd  he 
board,  who'd  do  his  washin',  who'd  mend  his 
clothes?"  worried  his  mother.  "I  dunno  as 
he'd  better  try  to  go,  there's  so  many  things  to 
think  of." 

"I  ain't  gone  yet,"  said  Jed,  who  scarcely 
seemed  to  relish  the  turn  his  mother  had  given 
the  conversation. 

170 


JED,    THE    GENTLEMAN    FARMER 

"And  supposin'  you  got  sick  in  the  night — 
way  off  t'other  side  of  nowhere?"  imagined  Ma. 

"I  ain't  no  baby,"  protested  Jed. 

"None  of  us  has  ever  went  to  college  afore, 
and  I  dunno  as  we  ought  to  begin  now,"  fretted 
his  mother.  "It  looks  like  it  was  a  good  thing 
your  Pa's  gettin'  more  money;  but  mebbe  it's 
better  to  be  pizen  poor  and  all  here  at  home  to 
gether.  Land!  I  can  stand  bad  luck,  I've  growed 
used  to  it,  and  know  jest  what  to  do  when  it 
strikes  me;  but  good  luck,  that's  different — it's 
kinder  excitin'  and  unsettlin'." 

"I  could  come  home  once  a  month,"  stated 
Jed.  "Sef tie's  goin'  to." 

"Yes;  but  a  thousand  things  might  happen 
betweentimes.  I  wisht  Seftie  Woods  had  left 
you  alone." 

"Well,  am  I  goin' — or  ain't  I  goin'?"  ques 
tioned  Jed,  anxiously. 

"I  dunno,"  returned  his  mother,  "there's 
plenty  to  worry  about  either  way." 

"Jed  '11  git  along  all  right,"  prophesied  Pa. 
"He  wa'n't  cut  out  for  an  apron-stringer — he's 
old  enough  to  look  out  for  hisself." 

"But  he's  never  done  it,"  answered  Ma;  "and 
as  for  apron  strings,  they're  the  healthiest  things 
for  a  boy  of  Jed's  age  to  be  hooked  onto." 

171 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"I'll  write  every  week  how  I'm  gettin'  along," 
promised  Jed. 

"You  could,  but  would  you?"  doubted  Ma. 

"A  Gentleman  Farmer,"  stated  Pa,  oracular 
ly,  "is  one  of  the  noblest  occupations  on  the 
crust  of  the  earth.  Jed,  you've  made  a  wise 
choice.  I'd  'a'  done  the  same  thing  in  your 
place." 

"Opal,  where's  your  old  tin  bank?"  inquired 
Ma.  "Jed  can  save  his  money  in  that." 


IX 

A    SURE-ENOUGH    SANTY 

A'.N'T  there  no  Santa  Claus  —  nowhere  ?" 
blubbered  little  Butch  Fanner,  discon 
solately.  He  was  at  his  grandmother 
Flickinger's ;  and  Jule,  who  was  also  there,  had 
just  been  maligning  the  good  old  patron  saint 
of  children  to  that  small  boy. 

"No,  there  ain't,"  answered  Jule,  decidedly; 
"your  ma  and  pa's  the  only  Santy  there  is." 

' '  Who  told  you  ?"  inquired  Butch,  suspiciously, 
between  sobs. 

"Nobody;  always  knew  it." 

"It's  jest  as  nice  to  have  your  ma  and  pa  git 
the  presents  when  you're  used  to  it,"  assured 
Opal,  who  was  helping  her  mother  peel  potatoes 
for  supper. 

"Ain't  there  no  reindeers?"  Butch  inquired, 
dolefully. 

"No;   nothin',"  returned  Jule. 

"Don't  he  come  down  the  chimbley?" 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"Naw;  fat  man  like  him!  What's  got  into 
you,  Butch,  to  believe  such  foolishness?"  she 
jeered. 

"Then  there  is  a  Santy,"  cried  Butch,  unex 
pectedly  brightening. 

"Naw,  there  ain't,"  again  denied  Jule. 

"But  you  said  'A  fat  man  like  him?'"  re 
peated  her  small  nephew. 

"What  if  I  did?  Can't  a  feller  open  his  head 
without  you  ketch  'em  up?  Everybody  plays 
there's  a  Santy,  and  that  he's  fat  —  that's  all 
there  is  to  it.  Ast  your  Gramma?"  concluded 
Jule,  triumphantly. 

"Ain't  there  a  Santy,  Gramma?"  questioned 
Butch. 

"No-o,  I  guess  there  ain't  none,"  answered 
Ma  Flickinger,  reluctantly,  disliking  to  put  Jule 
in  a  lie. 

"But  Jimmie  Bistle  seen  him  twict,"  urged 
Butch. 

"I  don't  know  much  about  it,"  evaded  Ma. 
"Ast  your  Grandpa,"  as  Pa  Flickinger  lounged 
into  the  room,  for  it  was  Saturday  afternoon, 
a  half-holiday  at  the  factory. 

"Ain't  there  a  sure  enough  Santy,  Grandpa?" 
questioned  Butch. 

"'A  sure  enough  Santy?'     Bless  your  little 


"AIN'T  THERE  NO  SANTA  CLAUSE  -NOWH  ERE  ?" 


A    SURE-ENOUGH    SANTY 

heart,  Butchie,  of  course  there  is,"  answered 
Pa. 

"  But  Gramma  says  there  ain't,  and  Jule  says 
there  ain't;  and  if  there  ain't,  I  won't  git  no 
s'penders  for  Christmas,  'cause  Pa  and  Ma  says  I 
ain't  big  enough  for  'em." 

"I'll  write  a  letter  to  Santy  myself  and  tell 
him  just  what  you  want,"  consoled  Opal. 

"But  Gramma  says  there  ain't  no  Santy," 
wailed  Butch,  bursting  into  fresh  grief. 

"Your  Gramma  means  all  right,  but  she  don't 
know  nothin'  about  it.  Hey,  old  woman?"  in 
quired  Pa,  jocularly. 

"Mebbe  I  be  mistaken,"  said  Ma,  relieved. 

"What's  the  use  of  keepin'  up  the  lie  any 
longer.  Butch  ain't  no  baby,"  put  in  Jule, 
boldly. 

"And  what's  the  use  of  your  comin'  over  here 
and  blabbin'  about  things  that  you'd  better  keep 
shut  of?"  growled  her  father. 

"Well,  I  never  did  think  it  right  to  lie  to  a 
young  one  when  they  git  as  old  as  Butch,"  ob 
served  Jule,  virtuously. 

"  Jimmie  Bistle,  he  seen  Santy — "  began  Butch, 
plaintively. 

"Then  Jimmie  he  knows,"  said  Pa,  genially. 

"Does  he  come  down  the  chimbley?"  ques 
ts 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

tioned  Butch,  only  too  ready  to  have  his  faith 
restored. 

"Sure!"  affirmed  Pa. 

"And  have  reindeers?" 

"Eight,"  informed  Pa,  with  conviction. 

"And  he'll  bring  me  red  s'penders,  won't  he, 
Grandpa?" 

"If  you're  good,"  promised  his  grandfather. 

And  Butch  went  noisily  out  to  hunt  up  Jim- 
mie  Bistle  and  to  have  his  faith  further  con 
firmed. 

"I'd  ruther  you  wouldn't  'a'  told  Butch  yet 
awhile,  Jule;  he  ain't  much  more'n  a  baby." 
And  Pa  shook  his  head  at  the  sacrilege. 

"I  don't  think  it's  right  to  string  out  a  lie 
like  that  till  doomsday,"  snapped  Jule. 

"I  dunno  as  't  is  a  lie,"  grumbled  Pa;  "but 
if  'tis,  it's  the  whitest  lie  I  ever  heard — and  it's 
good  enough  for  me." 

•  "Butch  '11  find  out  sooner  or  later,"  stated  Ma, 
practically,  without  looking  up  from  her  work. 

"Find  out  nothin',"  disagreed  Pa.  "I  never 
found  out  nothin'  ag'in  Santy  Claus  yit,  and 
I  ain't  no  greeny  neither.  But  here's  our  other 
grandchildren,  Janice  and  Jasper  and  Beulah, 
ain't  they  goin'  to  be  fetched  up  on  Santy  Claus  ?" 

"Every  last  one  of  'em  '11  be  fetched  up  on 
176 


A    SURE-ENOUGH    SANTY 

Santy  Clans,  if  I  have  my  way,"  answered  Ma, 
emphatically. 

"Of  course  my  twins  believe  now  in  Santy, 
3ut  I'm  goin'  to  tell  'em  the  truth  long  afore 
they're  as  old  as  Butch,"  put  in  Jule. 

"Well,  I  wish  there  was  some  way  we  could 
Drace  Butchie  up  now,"  sighed  Pa;  "somebody 
slse  '11  be  tellin'  him  it  ain't  so  ag'in,  and  then 
ie'11  feel  worse'n  ever.  I'm  goin'  to  speak  to 
Vlandy  and  Fanner,  and  have  them  put  in  a 
ivord  for  Santy,  'cause  Butch  hadn't  ought  to 
50  back  on  the  old  feller  yit." 

"Why  couldn't  we  have  a  Christmas-tree  and 
i  Santy  Claus  here  at  home,  all  of  us  Flick- 
ingers?"  inquired  Opal,  eagerly. 

"Hurray,  jest  the  figger!"  shouted  Pa.  "Let's 
io  it  to  celebrate  me  gettin'  a  better  job  at  the 
Factory." 

"If  that  ain't  jest  like  a  man  —  no  fore 
thought.  We  don't  have  much  more  .money 
now  than  we  did  afore  you  got  that  job,"  said 
Ma,  sharply,  "now  we're  savin'  for  Jed  to  go  to 
college;  you  know  it's  goin'  to  cost  a  lot  more 
than  we  reckoned  at  first.  Anybody  'd  think 
you  was  a  Rockfelter." 

But  just  then  Sophie,  who  lived  next  door, 
came  in,  and  Pa  told  her  about  Butch. 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

tioned  Butch,  only  too  ready  to  have  his  faith 
restored. 

"Sure!"  affirmed  Pa. 

"And  have  reindeers?" 

"Eight,"  informed  Pa,  with  conviction. 

"And  he'll  bring  me  red  s'penders,  won't  he, 
Grandpa?" 

"If  you're  good,"  promised  his  grandfather. 

And  Butch  went  noisily  out  to  hunt  up  Jim- 
mie  Bistle  and  to  have  his  faith  further  con 
firmed. 

"I'd  ruther  you  wouldn't  'a'  told  Butch  yet 
awhile,  Jule;  he  ain't  much  more'n  a  baby." 
And  Pa  shook  his  head  at  the  sacrilege. 

"I  don't  think  it's  right  to  string  out  a  lie 
like  that  till  doomsday,"  snapped  Jule. 

"I  dunno  as  't  is  a  lie,"  grumbled  Pa;  "but 
if  'tis,  it's  the  whitest  lie  I  ever  heard — and  it's 
good  enough  for  me." 

"Butch  '11  find  out  sooner  or  later,"  stated  Ma, 
practically,  without  looking  up  from  her  work. 

"Find  out  nothin',"  disagreed  Pa.  "I  never 
found  out  nothin'  ag'in  Santy  Claus  yit,  and 
I  ain't  no  greeny  neither.  But  here's  our  other 
grandchildren,  Janice  and  Jasper  and  Beulah, 
ain't  they  goin'  to  be  fetched  up  on  Santy  Claus  ?" 

"Every  last  one  of  'em  '11  be  fetched  up  on 
176 


A    SURE-ENOUGH    SANTY 

Santy  Claus,  if  I  have  my  way,"  answered  Ma, 
emphatically. 

"Of  course  my  twins  believe  now  in  Santy, 
but  I'm  goin'  to  tell  'em  the  truth  long  afore 
they're  as  old  as  Butch,"  put  in  Jule. 

"Well,  I  wish  there  was  some  way  we  could 
brace  Butchie  up  now,"  sighed  Pa;  "somebody 
else  '11  be  tellin'  him  it  ain't  so  ag'in,  and  then 
he'll  feel  worse'n  ever.  I'm  goin'  to  speak  to 
Mandy  and  Fanner,  and  have  them  put  in  a 
word  for  Santy,  'cause  Butch  hadn't  ought  to 
go  back  on  the  old  feller  yit." 

"Why  couldn't  we  have  a  Christmas-tree  and 
a  Santy  Claus  here  at  home,  all  of  us  Flick- 
ingers?"  inquired  Opal,  eagerly. 

"Hurray,  jest  the  rigger!"  shouted  Pa.  "Let's 
do  it  to  celebrate  me  gettin'  a  better  job  at  the 
factory." 

"If  that  ain't  jest  like  a  man  —  no  fore 
thought.  We  don't  have  much  more  .money 
now  than  we  did  afore  you  got  that  job,"  said 
Ma,  sharply,  "now  we're  savin'  for  Jed  to  go  to 
college;  you  know  it's  goin'  to  cost  a  lot  more 
than  we  reckoned  at  first.  Anybody  'd  think 
you  was  a  Rockfelter." 

But  just  then  Sophie,  who  lived  next  door, 
came  in,  and  Pa  told  her  about  Butch. 

177 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"Let's  all  put  in  together,  and  have  a  real 
Christmas,"  planned  Sophie — "all  of  us  mar 
ried  children,  Jule  and  Mandy  and  Elvie  and 
Billie  and  me;  it  wouldn't  cost  so  awful  much. 
What  you  think,  Mamma  Flickinger?" 

"What  I  think  is  that  you  and  Billie  are  pay- 
in'  for  the  instalments  on  your  home,"  Ma  dryly 
informed  her;  "and  it  does  seem  to  me,  Sophie, 
that  you'd  better  keep  right  at  it.  Pa  and  me 
never  think  that  we  can  let  our  instalments  git 
behind.  It  'd  be  nice,  but  it  'd  cost  too  much." 

"But  it  'd  be  fine  to  have  a  big  time,  'cause  it's 
the  first  Christmas  since  Mandy's  husband  came 
home.  Butchie's  Pa  would  like  it,  I  know,  after 
all  those  Klondike  hard  times.  Couldn't  we 
squeeze  out  the  money  some  way?"  pleaded 
Sophie. 

"Say,"  cried  Pa,  "now  you're  talkin'!  It 
would  hearten  Butch  Panner  up,  a  Santy  would, 
he's  been  away  from  civilization  so  long.  'Tain't 
likely  Santy  Claus  found  him  up  in  Klondike." 

"Pa,  you  talk  daffy,"  criticised  Jule.  "We 
could  do  as  Sophie  says,  but  we  women  folks 
don't  want  to  bother  with  it ;  it's  muss  and  fuss 
and  young  ones  gettin'  sick  on  candy,  and  break- 
in'  their  presents  afore  they're  fairly  off'n  the 
tree.  And  all  of  us  a-strainin'  to  git  each  other 

178 


A    SURE-ENOUGH    SANTY 

presents — that  ain't  worth  nothin'  when  they're 
bought." 

"That's  about  right,  Jule,"  commented  Ma. 

"And  we'll  git  our  young  ones  some  little  thing 
for  Christmas,  and  they'll  never  know  the  dif 
ference,"  declared  Jule;  "for  I  believe  in  a 
Santa  Claus  all  right,  all  right,  for  kids  like 
mine ;  but  when  it  comes  to  a  great  lummox  like 
Butch  it's  time  to  quit." 

"Still,  it  'd  be  nice  to  have  a  big  time  here  at 
home,"  maintained  Pa,  after  Sophie  had  gone 
home.  "Ain't  it  Longfeller,"  he  went  on,  in 
an  expansive  holiday  mood,  "that  says,  'It's 
better  to  give  than  to  receive'?" 

"I  dunno;  I  ain't  up  to  such  things  any  more," 
replied  Ma.  "Mebbe  it's  better  to  give  than  to 
receive ;  but  when  you  ain't  got  nothin'  to  give, 
and  then  strain  up  and  give  it,  where 's  the 
justice  in  that?  Nothin'  good  in  robbin'  your 
self  to  give  a  present  that  nobody  wants." 

"If  I  was  rich,"  grumbled  Pa,  "you  bet  I'd 
do  things  Christmas-time  like  white  folks." 

"If  you  was  rich,"  retorted  Ma,  "folks  'd  do 
things  for  you  all  right,  all  right — your  Christ 
mas  stockin'  'd  be  overflowin';  but  I  dunno 
about  your  returnin'  any  of  it — if  you  was  rich." 

"Still,  there's  a  kinder  feel  in  the  air  about 
179 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

Christmas-time  that  gits  into  a  feller  —  rich  or 
poor,"  claimed  Pa,  "and  it  makes  him  want  to 
live  up  to  the  '  peace-on-earth-good-will-to-man  ' 
business — 

"I  never  felt  it,"  disagreed  Ma,  "and  I'll  bet 
you  wouldn't  if  you  had  to  cook  and  scrub  from 
mornin'  till  night  like  I  have  to.  Opal,  start  the 
kitchen  fire,  and  then  set  the  table." 

"Nobody  ought  to  be  too  busy  nor  too  poor 
to  feel  it,"  returned  Pa.  "We  ought  to  look 
about  us  Christmas- time,"  he  added,  largely,  "and 
see  if  we  can't  fine  some  one  to  be  friendly  with." 

"I  wouldn't  have  to  look  far,"  broke  in  Ma; 
"there's  Mis'  Bistle,  Jimmie's  Ma,  the  best 
neighbor  I  ever  had,  she's  mad  at  me.  And  if 
there's  so  much  in  the  '  peace-on-earth-good-will- 
to-man  '  business,  why  don't  she  come  over  and 
make  up  with  me?" 

"Jest  as  much  your  place  to  go  over  there," 
Pa  informed  her. 

"Ketch  me  goin'  first,"  sniffed  Ma. 

"You  never  seemed  to  set  such  a  store  by 
Mis'  Bistle  till  you  fell  out  with  her,"  observed 
Jule,  shrewdly. 

"Well,  I  dunno  as  I  did,"  allowed  Ma,  hon 
estly,  "though  I  always  liked  her.  Mis'  Bistle 
is  awful  good  company." 

1 80 


A    SURE-ENOUGH    SANTY 

"I've  heard  you  say  a  hundred  times  that 
Mis'  Bistle's  too  finicky  to  live,"  reminded 
Jule. 

"She  is  a  little  finicky,"  admitted  Ma,  "or 
she'd  never  'a'  got  mad  at  my  keepin'  that 
water-set  that  was  bought  for  her  sister — Mis' 
Hi  Lundy's  weddin'  present." 

"Mis'  Bistle  is  jest  every-day  plain  mean," 
spoke  up  Jule. 

"No,  I  wouldn't  call  it  that,"  corrected  Ma. 
"Mis'  Bistle's  different  from  us;  she's  always 
lived  different.  She's  always  been  well-to-do, 
and  had  a  cupboard  full  of  chiny  and  silver, 
and  hired  her  washings  done,  and  never  lacked 
for  decent  clothes  to  wear;  why,  Mis'  Bistle's 
never  knowed  the  time  when  she  didn't  have  a 
black  silk  dress  (and  I  never  knowed  the  time 
when  I  did  have  one).  Mis'  Bistle's  always  had 
everything  that  heart  could  wish;  and  while  I 
don't  complain,  I've  never  had  nothin'  but 
poverty  and  hard  work.  She  jest  naturally 
hain't  had  hard  times  enough  to  make  her  think 
of  other  people." 

"  I  call  her  jest  plain  selfish,"  asserted  Jule. 

"Mis'  Bistle  is  a  good  woman,"  maintained 
Ma,  loyally,  "  and  if  she  is  a  little  selfish  it's  be 
cause  the  smallness  of  it  ain't  never  been  fetched 
**  181 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

home  to  her.  And  she's  a  good  deal  more  gen 
erous  than  I  be." 

"  She's  got  more  to  be  generous  with.  But  she 
ain't,  neither;  for  you  know,  Ma,  you'd  take  the 
clothes  off'n  your  back  for  one  of  us  young  ones." 

"Land  knows,"  cried  Ma,  "I  never  begrudged 
anything  to  my  own  folks!  But  that  ain't  the 
height  of  unselfishness.  I  never  could  hand  out 
things  to  neighbors  as  free  as  I'd  like  to — I'm 
always  thinkin'  how  much  it  costs.  Why,  Mis' 
Bistle's  sent  me  over  a  hull  can  of  peaches  or 
a  hull  pie  at  onct,  and  when  Sophie  was  sick 
she  furnished  every  blessed  thing  that  girl  et  for 
a  week." 

"Oh,  I  don't  suppose  Mis'  Bistle's  a  regular 
heathen,"  qualified  Jule;  "but  if  Mis'  Bistle 
wanted  to  be  friends  with  you,  she  would;  she 
ain't  backward  in  doin'  what  she  wants  to — 
I've  noticed  that.  But  I  shouldn't  think  you'd 
want  to  be  friends  with  her  after  the  way  she's 
treated  you." 

"As  you  git  older,  you  don't  care  so  much 
about  little  faults  in  your  friends,"  stated  Ma, 
"knowin'  you're  chuck  full  of  faults  yourself. 
Life  ain't  so  long  that  you  can  afford  to  hold 
spites.  And  there's  lots  of  good  in  Mis'  Bistle. 
And  it  don't  make  no  difference  whether  she 
182 


A    SURE-ENOUGH    SANTY 

likes  me  or  not.  /  like  her;  and  I  miss  her  more 
at  Christmas  -  time,  when  everybody's  blabbin' 
about  good- will." 

"It'd  be  a  good  miss  to  me,"  remarked  Jule, 
loftily. 

"Oh,  shut  up,  Jule!"  commanded  Ma.  "I 
never  said  a  word  ag'in  Mis'  Bistle  in  my  life, 
but  it  was  my  misfortune  to  rile  her."  And  Ma 
sighed. 

"Of  all  livin'  bein's,  women  git  me,"  criticised 
Pa.  "Here's  Bistle  and  me  been  the  best  of 
friends  for  thirty  year  without  a  grouchy  word, 
but  you  women  folks  can't  go  six  months  with 
out  a  spat.  It  looks  like  women  wa'n't  bright." 

"But  it's  the  good  times  me  and  Mis'  Bistle 
has  had  together,  partly,  I  suppose,  that  makes 
me  feel  so  kind  to  her,"  went  on  Ma.  "We've 
laughed  till  we've  cried  over  some  fool  thing, 
and  goin'  and  comin'  from  town  we've  had  as 
much  fun  as  two  girls.  Mis'  Bistle's  tumble 
jolly." 

"She  makes  fun  of  folks,"  said  Jule,  bluntly. 

"Well,  who  don't?"  inquired  her  mother, 
tartly.  "Ain't  I  heard  you  poke  fun  at  Milo, 
your  own  husband,  'cause  he's  so  wishie-washie  ?" 

"Oh,  that's  in  the  family,"  defended  Jule. 

"All  the  worse,  then,"  retorted  Ma. 
183 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

Though  Pa  had  strengthened  his  little  grand 
son's  faith  in  Santa  Claus  again,  the  next  time 
Jule  saw  Butch  she  took  pains  to  undo  the 
good  work,  and  Butch  was  once  more  disen 
chanted,  and  not  even  Pa  Flickinger  could  then 
repair  the  fractured  faith  of  the  doubting  small 
boy.  For  Jule,  besides  telling  her  nephew  that 
Santa  Claus  was  too  fat  to  go  down  the  chimney, 
added  that  his  reindeers,  if  he  had  any,  could  not 
gallop  up  the  side  of  a  house;  she  also  pointed 
out  the  impossibility  of  his  visiting  every  home 
in  the  world  in  one  short  night,  when  it  took 
their  milkman  a  whole  day  to  make  a  tour  of 
their  own  town:  all  very  homely  but  practical 
arguments,  and  just  suited  to  the  comprehen 
sion  of  Butch,  who  had  been  looking  forward 
to  Christmas  for  weeks,  and  was  now  having  a 
very  doleful  time. 

But  as  the  holidays  drew  near,  and  wreaths  of 
mistletoe  and  holly  began  to  appear  in  the  win 
dows,  and  the  stores  down-town  were  decked  in 
evergreen  and  red  berries,  and  brimming  with  al 
luring  gifts,  and  gay  with  jolly  looking,  white- 
whiskered  Santa  Clauses,  and  the  sidewalks  were 
lined  with  little  pine  Christmas-trees,  then  the 
spirit  of  Christmas  invaded  the  Flickingers'  poor 
homes,  and  the  twins,  Janice  and  Jasper,  and  baby 

184 


A    SURE-ENOUGH    SANTY 

Beulah  lisped  of  Santa  Claus.  And  Pa,  tramp 
ing  home  after  his  day's  work,  looked  wistfully 
at  the  signs  of  the  coming  Yule-tide,  and  felt 
extra  glum  because  his  folks  were  shut  out  from 
it  all. 

But  Sophie  could  not  bear  to  think  of  Christ 
mas  passing  without  a  fitting  celebration,  and 
invited  the  Flickingers  all  over  to  supper  Christ 
mas  Eve. 

'Til  be  glad  when  this  here  thing's  over," 
said  Ma  to  her  married  children,  who  had  met 
at  her  house  before  going  over  to  Sophie's. 

"I'll  bet  Sophie  '11  have  a  swell  meal,"  proph 
esied  Mort  Yates,  Beulah 's  father,  a  dapper  lit 
tle  man,  about  half  the  size  of  his  wife  Elvie. 
Mort  was  considered  the  best  dresser  in  the 
family,  and  wore  on  this  festal  occasion  a  gayly 
flowered  necktie,  Elvie's  Christmas  gift,  which 
she  had  made  from  some  old  hat  trimmings  of  a 
gaudily  flamboyant  character. 

"  Where'd  Mort  git  that  thing?"  demanded  Ma. 

"I  made  it.  Ain't  it  pretty?  The  colors 
blend  so  nicely  with  his  looks,"  explained  Elvie. 

"Mebbe  it  blends,  but  it's  a  tumble  strain  on 
the  eyes,"  returned  Ma. 

"I  like  it,"  stoutly  affirmed  Pa;  "it  gives  a 
kinder  Christmassy  air  to  Mort." 

185 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"  Elvie's  the  blamedest  hand  to  contrive  some 
thing  out'n  nothin',"  said  Mort,  with  consider 
able  pride. 

"  So  can  Sophie  do  things  that  way,"  spoke  up 
Opal. 

"Sophie  occasionally  overdoes  it,  though," 
observed  Ma,  sourly.  "  Look  at  this  here  Christ 
mas  doin's:  her  a-askin'  us  all  over  there,  and  a 
strainin'  to  git  a  big  meal,  and  pretendin'  we've 
got  a  merry  Christmas  jest  like  other  folks  that's 
rich  enough  to  have  one.  For  my  part,  I  can't 
never  forgit  the  cost  of  such  foolishness  as  this." 

"Tain't  costin'  so  awful  much,"  broke  in 
Mandy;  "my  man  he  furnishes  the  turkey 
out'n  the  butcher-shop." 

"  Fanner's  easy,"  grumbled  Ma.  "  It  wouldn't 
hurt  him  none,  as  well  as  Sophie,  to  be  thinkin' 
of  a  rainy  day." 

"I'll  never  miss  the  turkey,"  struck  in  Pan- 
ner,  generously.  "And  how  good  it  seems," 
continued  the  returned  miner,  "to  see  us  all 
here  and  goin'  to  eat  Christmas  dinner  together, 
jest  as  if  them  dreadful  times  in  the  Klondike 
was  a  dream.  I  guess  last  Christmas  I  didn't 
git  nothin'  like  this." 

Jed  sat  by  the  table  in  his  old  clothes  reading 
a  book. 

186 


A    SURE-ENOUGH    SANTY 

"What  'er  you  readin',  Jeddie?"  inquired  Pa. 

"Soils:  their  component  parts  and  uses,"  an 
swered  Jed,  briefly. 

"Wot  a  mouthful!"  admired  Pa,  whose  respect 
for  Jed  was  steadily  increasing. 

"Jed  says  he  ain't  a-goin'  over  to  Sophie's  for 
supper,"  informed  Opal. 

"Ain't  a-goin'?"  echoed  their  father,  sur 
prised.  "Well,  I  guess  he  is." 

"No,  he  ain't,"  answered  Ma,  resignedly; 
"you  can't  do  nothin'  with  Jed  when  he  gits  a 
book  in  his  hand." 

"  But  it  won't  look  right  toward  Sophie,"  ex 
postulated  Pa. 

"I  know  it  won't,"  responded  Ma;  "but  what 
does  Jed  care  about  Sophie — or  anybody  else?" 

"You'd  better  go,  Jeddie,"  coaxed  Pa,  "seein' 
it's  Christmas.  Whose  book  you  got?" 

"Seftie  Woods'.     Now  lemme  alone." 

"Jed's  a-patternin'  after  Billie  right  along," 
sighed  his  mother. 

"He  might  'a'  took  a  better  pattern,  then, 
that's  all  I've  got  to  say  about  it,"  grumbled  Pa. 

"Aw,  come  on,  Jed,"  encouraged  Panner; 
"  it  won't  last  long.  Remember,  you're  the  fel 
ler  that  found  the  Black  Man  Thanksgivin' 
Day." 

187 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"I'll  hook  you  a  drumstick,  mebbe,  Jed," 
volunteered  Milo,  who  could  not  bear  to  think 
of  the  boy's  missing  the  turkey. 

"You  won't  do  no  such  thing,"  denied  Jule; 
"  if  Jed  wants  turkey  meat,  he'll  have  to  go  where 
it  is." 

"Aw,  let  up!"  growled  Jed,  ungraciously,  and 
went  on  reading. 

"I'm  tumble  sorry  that  little  Butchie  ain't 
goin'  to  have  no  Santy,"  sighed  Pa,  as  they 
started  over  to  Sophie's. 

"I  never  had  no  Santy  when  I  was  young," 
complained  Ma,  "and  I  guess  Butch  can  stand 
it.  I'm  so  dead  tired  that  I'd  ruther  take  a 
lickin'  than  go  over  to  Sophie's,  anyway." 

"Only  next  door,"  said  Pa. 

"Well,  that's  nothin';  I'm  tired  enough  to 
stay  at  home  and  go  to  bed  without  any  supper. 
I  like  to  git  Christmas  over  without  any  fuss; 
it's  a  disagreeable  day  for  me,  'cause  we  ain't 
got  money  enough  to  do  it  like  other  folks. 
But  Sophie's  been  fetched  up  different;  she's 
always  puttin'  on  airs  and  actin'  like  she  was 
swell." 

"Still,  she  never  wastes  no  money,  and  she 
always  manages  to  git  a  good  time  out'n  life, 
and  to  give  a  good  time  to  others,"  declared  Pa. 

188 


A    SURE-ENOUGH    SANTY 

"  But  when  Sophie's  as  old  as  I  am  she  won't 
be  so  chipper;  life  '11  take  the  spring  out'n  her," 
prophesied  Ma. 

"  And  remember  there's  a  Santy  Glaus,  Butch," 
whispered  Pa,  as  the  Flickingers  filed  into 
Sophie's  house;  "don't  let  the  women  folks 
fool  you  out  of  that  yet  awhile." 

But  Butch  only  gave  voice  to  an  irresponsive, 
doubting  "uh-huh,"  which  made  Pa  bluer  than 
ever.  "What  a  cussed  thing  it  is,"  he  mused, 
"to  scrush  an  innocent  make-believe  for  a  baby 
like  Butch!" 

Sophie  had  her  dining-room  table  pulled  out 
to  its  fullest  extent  to  accommodate  the  family. 
But  there  was  one  guest  there  that  evening  that 
was  not  a  Flickinger,  even  by  marriage,  and 
that  was  their  neighbor,  Mrs.  Bistle,  who,  on  ac 
count  of  a  severe  cold,  had  not  been  able  to  go 
with  her  family  to  spend  the  day  at  Mis'  Hi 
Lundy's,  so  Sophie  had  invited  her  over  there 
at  the  last  moment. 

As  soon  as  they  were  all  seated  at  the  table, 
Billie  noticed  that  one  chair  was  unoccupied. 
"Where's  that  kid?"  he  demanded. 

"Jed  wouldn't  come,"  informed  Opal;  "he's 
readin'." 

"Wouldn't  come!"  repeated  Bill,  instantly 
189 


PA   FLICKINGER'S   FOLKS 

born.  He  thinks  it's  bright  to  act  the  fool. 
And  it  makes  me  plumb  disgusted,  after  all  the 
trouble  Sophie's  went  to  for  us  folks,  to  have  Jed 
act  like  a  baby,  and  have  to  be  fetched  over 
bodily;  it  looks  like  Jed  wa'n't  bright." 

"Well,  anyway,  Jeddie's  here  already  now," 
conciliated  Sophie,  "so  we'll  begin  supper. 
Billie,  serve  Mamma  Flickinger  first." 

But  Ma,  with  elegant  politeness,  passed  her 
heaped  plate  on  to  Mrs.  Bistle;  but  she  could 
not  help  saying,  in  a  pleased  aside  to  Jule: 
"Land,  to  think  I  got  served  afore  Mis'  Bistle! 
Ain't  Sophie  the  thoughtfullest  girl?" 

Then  a  commotion  arose  at  Jule's  end  of  the 
table;  for  the  twins,  seeing  that  filled  plates 
were  being  handed  to  others  and  none  as  yet  to 
themslves,  began  to  cry  and  to  jerk  at  the 
table-cloth,  and  to  reach  for  the  food  that  was 
nearest  them. 

"Jule,  cuff  them  twinses!"  ordered  Pa. 

"I  have,"  returned  Jule,  "but  it  don't  do  no 
good.  I  can't  do  nothin'  with  'em  when  they  git 
a  fit  like  this  onto  'em." 

"They're  hungry,"  said  Opal,  in  excuse  of  the 
twins. 

"  Well,  hungry!"  echoed  Pa.  "I  thought  when 
my  own  kids  was  young  that  they  was  the 

192 


A    SURE-ENOUGH    SANTY 

worst  there  was;  but  the  twinses  certainly  take 
the  cake!"  Which  was  literally  true,  as  Janice 
and  Jasper  had  both  grabbed  slices  of  fruit 
cake  from  a  plate  near  them,  and  were  gob 
bling  it  down  and  crumbling  it  over  the  table 
cloth. 

"Sophie  '11  never  ask  you  ag'in  to  her  house 
to  eat,  Janice  and  Jasper,"  warned  their  grand 
mother,  "if  you  don't  behave  yourselves." 

"Jule  don't  know  nothin',  Ma,  about  bringin' 
up  young  ones,"  said  Mandy,  complacently. 

"If  my  twins  act  worse  than  your  Butch, 
I'll — "  began  Jule;  for  Butch  was  at  that  minute 
engaged  in  fishing  cranberries  from  his  saucer 
with  a  fork  and  dropping  them  into  his  glass  of 
water  to  see  what  would  happen. 

"They  don't,"  broke  in  Bill,  impatiently; 
"all  three  of  'em  act  like  blamed  freaks.  Now 
stop  jawin',  and  git  to  eatin'." 

"Whatever  Jule's  goin'  to  do  with  them  twins 
of  hern  as  they  grow  up,  I  don't  know."  And 
Ma  Flickinger  gloomily  shook  her  head. 

"Lick  'em,"  advised  Pa,  energetically — "lick 
'em;  that  '11  take  'em  down  a  peg.  Why,  if  I'd 
'a'  acted  that  way  when  I  was  a  kid  at  the  table 
my  old  man  'd  give  me  Hail  Columby." 

But  the  twins,  receiving  heaped  plates  from 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

Bill,  suddenly  became  good,  and  were  no  longer 
interesting  subjects  for  conversation. 

Yet,  after  all,  it  was  a  jolly  meal,  for  Billie 
delighted  in  dispensing  hospitality,  and  dished 
out  enormous  plates  of  turkey  and  mashed 
potatoes  again  and  again,  and  joked  everybody. 
And  Butch,  for  a  time,  drowned  his  troubles  in 
a  generous  helping  of  gravy,  and  filled  the  void 
that  Santa  Claus  had  left  with  Christmas  turkey. 

Fanner,  expanding  with  good  cheer,  told  them 
the  tragic  tale  of  a  miner  named  Rutmeinsyer, 
who  went  to  the  Klondike,  and,  after  enduring  ter 
rible  privations,  died  a  horrible  death.  And  Ma 
said,  as  she  wiped  her  eyes  to  hide  her  pity  for 
the  unfortunate  man,  that  probably  his  name 
had  killed  him.  And  the  dinner-party  seemed 
twice  as  cheerful  in  contrast  to  the  awful  fate 
of  Rutmeinsyer,  which  was  followed  by  Mrs. 
Bistle's  recital  of  the  strange  sickness  and  death 
of  her  uncle  Bradford,  on  her  mother's  side, 
rich  with  detail  and  peppered  over  with  a  spat 
tering  of  mispronounced  medical  terms. 

And  Jed,  unbending  in  this  genial  atmosphere 
from  his  usual  stoical  disregard  of  all  social 
duties,  fought  with  Opal  for  the  wishbone; 
and  because  Sophie  whispered  something  to 
him,  he  sheepishly  let  his  little  sister  conquer 

194 


A    SURE-ENOUGH    SANTY 

in  the  wishbone  fight.  And  Ma  Flickinger  and 
her  neighbor,  Mrs.  Bistle,  who  had  exchanged 
painfully  polite  greetings  when  they  first  met, 
were  soon  exchanging  choice  bits  of  gossip,  and 
later,  when  they  washed  the  dishes  together, 
all  coolness  melted  between  them. 

But  the  good  cheer  of  the  supper  was  nothing 
to  that  which  followed;  for  soon  after  they  left 
the  table,  Bill,  mumbling  an  excuse  that  nobody 
understood,  disappeared,  grinning,  up-stairs.  But 
he  had  not  been  gone  long  till  Sophie  threw  open 
the  parlor  doors,  which  had  been  closed  since  the 
guests  arrived,  crying: 

"  Welcome,  everybody,  to  the  Christmas-tree!" 

For,  bright  with  gleaming  candles,  gay  with 
festoons  of  snowy  popcorn  and  red  berries, 
sprinkled  over  with  shining  stars,  and  laden 
with  mysterious  packages,  there  stood  a  beauti 
ful  Christmas-tree — a  gorgeous,  glittering,  shim 
mering  vision  from  its  moss-covered  base  to  its 
topmost  glossy  green  tassel. 

The  babies,  Janice  and  Jasper  and  Beulah, 
crowed  with  delight;  but  Butch's  joy  was  more 
volcanic,  and  he  let  off  his  appreciation  in  ap 
propriate  yells,  which  were  scarcely  heeded  in 
the  general  babble  of  voices,  for  nobody  had 
known  of  the  tree  except  Sophie  and  Bill. 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

But  before  they  recovered  from  the  surprise 
of  the  Christmas-tree,  Santa  Glaus  himself  burst, 
with  a  jingle  of  bells,  from  the  stairway  door, 
splendid  in  fur-trimmed  coat  and  great  white 
whiskers,  and  wearing  a  string  of  sleigh-bells 
about  his  waist. 

Butch's  eyes  were  round  with  astonishment, 
and  Butch's  heart  danced  with  joy  at  this  be 
wildering  sight.  And  the  twins  and  Beulah, 
not  knowing  whether  to  fear  Santa  Glaus  or  to 
laugh  at  him,  took  the  hint  from  their  elders  and 
laughed  and  crowed  louder  than  ever. 

"Merry  Christmas!"  cried  Santa  Glaus,  in  a 
queer,  high-pitched  voice.  "Fetch  me  that  kid 
that  don't  believe  in  Santy  Glaus,  and  lemme 
give  him  a  present!" 

Butch,  scared  and  delighted  all  in  a  breath, 
was  dragged  to  the  tree  by  his  father,  big  Butch 
Fanner. 

"  I  do  believe  in  Santy!  I  do  believe  in  Santy!" 
vociferated  Butch,  with  noisy,  whole-souled  en 
thusiasm,  his  waning  faith  in  the  jolly  old  saint 
completely  restored. 

But  when  Santa  Glaus  selected  one  of  the 
mysterious  packages  from  the  tree  and  called 
out  in  a  squeaky  but  jovial  voice  Butch's 
name,  and  Butch  grabbed  the  alluring  package 

196 


A    SURE-ENOUGH    SANTY 

and  tore  off  the  wrapper,  then  was  the  supreme 
moment  of  that  enchantingly  happy  Christmas 
Eve;  for  Butch  held  in  his  eager  hands  a  pair 
of  fire-red  suspenders — just  his  size! 

It  did  not  matter  to  Butch  and  the  babies 
that  Santa  Claus'  coat  and  cap  were  trimmed 
with  cotton-batting  in  place  of  fur,  and  that  his 
whiskers  were  of  the  same  cheap  material; 
neither  did  they  notice  that  Santa  Claus  experi 
enced  considerable  difficulty  in  keeping  his 
whiskers  on,  and  seemed  satisfied  so  long  as 
they  did  not  come  off  entirely. 

Like  a  delightful  fairy  dream  passed  the  rest 
of  the  evening  to  Butch.  Opal  was  happy  with 
hair  ribbons,  made  from  Sophie's  wedding  finery; 
Jed  viewed  with  pride  his  present — one  of  Bill's 
old  neckties,  turned  and  pressed  till  it  looked 
like  new;  it  was  a  gorgeous  purple  and  green, 
very  trying  to  the  complexion,  but  satisfying 
to  the  soul.  The  babies  were  joyous  over  im 
possible  woollen  dogs.  And  everybody  had 
a  home-made  present,  even  Mrs.  Bistle;  and 
Sophie,  with  a  little  help  from  Bill,  had  done 
it  all. 

"  Now  do  you  believe  in  a  sure-enough  Santy, 
Butch?"  inquired  Pa,  after  Santa  Claus  dis 
appeared. 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"Uh-huh!"  grunted  Butch,  in  an  inarticulate 
but  happy  affirmative. 

"How  does  that  happen?"  asked  his  grand 
father,  incredulously. 

"I  seen  him!"    Butch  spoke  conclusively. 

"And  he  seen  you,"  returned  Pa;  "and  he 
give  you  as  gay  a  pair  of  s'penders  as  he  had  by 
him;  and  it's  up  to  you,  Butchie,  to  live  up  to 
them  s'penders,  and  to  show  Santy  that  he 
ain't  made  a  mistake  and  give  'em  to  a  cry 
baby.  Hey,  Butch?" 

"Uh-huh,"  grinned  Butch,  contentedly  munch 
ing  home-made  candy.  "And  his  bells  was  like 
mine,  wasn't  they,  Grandpa?" 

"  Summat  like  yourn,"  admitted  Pa,  guardedly. 

"And  his  whiskers  was  jest  like  pichers  of 
him,"  went  on  Butch. 

"  Whiter 'n  snow,"  qualified  Pa. 

"And  he  don't  come  unless  you're  good,  does 
he,  Grandpa?"  asked  Butch,  who,  now  that 
Santa  Claus  had  actually  come,  supposed  he 
must  have  been  a  very  good  boy. 

"  Not  him,"  replied  Pa,  with  emphasis. 

And  Jule,  emotional  always,  was  now  as 
happy  and  as  delighted  with  the  tree  as  if  she 
herself  had  been  responsible  for  it;  and  she  no 
longer  argued  with  Butch  over  the  authenticity 

198 


A    SURE-ENOUGH    SANTY 

of  Santa  Claus,  refraining  with  no  one  knew 
what  self-sacrifice. 

"Sophie,  you'll  never  know  how  all  this 
trouble  you've  took  for  my  little  lad  has  been 
appreciated,"  said  William  Fanner  that  night, 
when  he  and  Mandy  and  sleepy  but  satisfied 
Butch  started  home;  then  he  added,  in  a  sin 
cere  hyperbole  of  thanks:  "It's  worth  all  I've 
been  through  in  the  Klondike  to  be  in  such 
home-doin's  as  this!" 

"  Sophie  ain't  so  slow  when  it  comes  to  makin' 
folks  happy,"  agreed  Bill,  with  hearty  good- will. 
"Everybody  come  ag'in." 

"It's  queer  what  a  lot  of  make-believe  it  takes 
to  turn  out  the  real  thing,"  philosophized  Pa, 
when  he  and  Ma  were  talking  over  the  tree  that 
night,  after  Jed  and  Opal  had  gone  to  bed;  "but 
this  here  has  been  a  sure-enough  Christmas  for 
us  all — Santy  Claus,  gifts,  and  reunited  friends." 

"And  the  presents  never  cost  nothin',"  exulted 
Ma  at  Sophie's  thrift.  "  Lookie,  Pa,  at  my  new 
flat-iron  holders,  somethin'  I've  needed  for  the 
last  six  years." 

But  Pa  gave  only  a  hasty  glance,  for  he  was 
busily  trying  on  a  half  dozen  finger-stalls  that 
Sophie  had  made  for  him  in  case  of  an  accident 
at  the  factory.  "I'll  be  anxious  to  scrush  a 

199 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

finger  now,"  declared  Pa.      "Lookie,  Ma,  what 
could  be  thoughtfuller  ?" 

"And  it  never  cost  nothin',''  repeated  Ma. 

"But  Butchie's  s'penders  was  bran-new,"  said 
Pa. 

"No,  sir;  made  out'n  Billie's  old  ones.  And 
land!  when  I  looked  at  that  splendid  tree  that 
Billie  'd  dragged  up  from  the  marsh,  and  seen 
them  strings  of  popcorn  and  swamp  berries,  and 
the  little  stars  cut  out'n  tin-foil  from  Billie's  to 
bacco  wrappers,  and  the  candles  saved  from 
some  Christmas  doin's  in  the  Pole's  country,  I 
was  plumb  flabbergasted  to  see  such  smart  deco 
rations  turned  out'n  nothin'." 

"Sophie  'd  turn  a  'tato  into  a  peach  if  she  set 
out!"  affirmed  Pa. 

"And  it  give  me  a  turn,"  went  on  Ma,  "to  see 
Mis'  Bistle  there;  and  I  ups  and  says  to  her, 
when  we  washed  the  dishes,  '  I've  wished  a 
thousand  times,  Mis'  Bistle,  that  I'd  sent  that 
present  up  to  your  sister,  Mis'  Hi  Lundy;  but 
my  folks  persuaded  me  to  keep  it.'  And  Mis' 
Bistle  says,  '  I  never  onct  thought  about  that 
present;  I  jest  thought  you  acted  cool  and  queer, 
so  I  made  up  my  mind  that  I'd  stay  away  till 
you  come  over,  thinkin'  I  might  have  riled  you 
unbeknownst.' 

200 


A    SURE-ENOUGH    SANTY 

"'And  I  acted  queer  because  I  thought  you 
was  mad  about  the  water-set,"  said  I. 

"'Why,  land  alive!'  cried  Mis'  Bistle.  'My 
sister  got  three  water-sets  jest  like  the  one  you 
bought  for  her  and  kept  yourself.'  Then  we 
both  broke  out  laughin',  and  now  we're  better 
friends  than  ever." 

"Women  folks  git  me,"  remarked  Pa,  shak 
ing  his  head. 

"And  to  think  that  I  thought  we  couldn't 
have  a  nice  Christmas  unless  we  was  rich," 
laughed  Ma. 

"Sophie  is  rich,"  declared  Pa;  "she's  what 
you'd  call  rich  in  spirit." 

"And  there's  a  kinder  ' peace-on-earth-good- 
will-to-man '  feelin'  in  the  air,  jest  as  you  said, 
Pa." 

"Sure  there  is,"  responded  Pa,  softly.  "I 
kno wed. you'd  feel  it  if  you  got  a  chanct." 


X 

GRANDPAW    PEEBLES 

1DUNNO  what  Jule's  goin'  to  do  with  them 
twins  of  hern — they  grow  worse  every  day; 
they're  jest  gettin'  where  they're  into  every 
thing,  and  she  don't  have  no  control  over  'em," 
worried  Ma  Flickinger. 

"She  jaws  'em  enough,"  put  in  Opal,  who  was 
helping  her  mother  get  dinner. 

"Yes,  she  jaws  'em;  and  her  fetchin'  up  con 
sists  mostly  in  tellin'  'em  don't  after  they've 
done  a  thing." 

"She  slaps  'em,  too,"  testified  Opal. 

"They  need  it.  A  good  cuffin'  never  comes 
amiss  with  such  young  ones  as  hern." 

"But  they  mind  me  better'n  they  do  her," 
observed  Opal,  proudly. 

"Nothin'  queer  in  that;  you've  tended  'em. 
more'n  Jule  ever  did.  She  shunted  'em  off  on 
you  afore  they  could  walk,  and  now  they're 
gettin'  bigger  she  don't  know  what  to  do  with 
'em." 

202 


GRANDPAW    PEEBLES 

"They  chewed  up  our  family  group  yester 
day,"  accused  Opal. 

"Land  sakes!  I  should  'a'  thought  Jule 
would  'a'  kept  that  picture  out'n  reach.  But 
they  git  ahead  of  her;  and  Milo,  their  pa,  ain't 
no  better'n  a  rag  to  tend  'em." 

"He  won't  even  lick  'em,"  said  Opal,  scorn 
fully. 

"It  ain't  in  him,"  sighed  Ma.  "Milo  thinks 
'cause  the  twins  are  hiss'n  that  they  ought  to 
know  enough  to  be  good  without  tellin' ;  he  says 
he  never  got  a  lickin'  in  his  hull  life,  but  his 
mother,  old  Mis'  Peebles,  was  a  wonderful, 
masterful  woman.  If  she  jest  looked  at  Milo 
he'd  jump  and  run  to  do  herbiddin';  and  now 
he  thinks  the  twins  ought  to  mind  him  and  Jule 
that  way.  Milo  had  all  the  spring  scrushed 
out'n  him  long  afore  he  was  growed  up,  but  it's 
comin'  out  in  his  young  ones,  all  right,  all  right." 

"And  Jule  quarrels  with  the  twins  jest  like 
she  was  a  young  one  herself,"  declared  Opal. 

"That's  the  trouble;  she  is  a  young  one  her 
self.  She  wa'n't  so  many  years  older'n  you  are 
now  when  she  got  married — not  fairly  out'n 
short  dresses.  But  she  would  git  married." 

"And  she  don't  know  as  much  about  house 
work  as  I  do,"  claimed  Opal,  proudly. 

203 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"That's  right,"  affirmed  Ma;  "  Jule  can't  half 
sew;  she  can't  half  do  house- work;  she  can't  do 
nothin'  right;  and  she  thinks  she  ought  to  go 
gallivantin'  'round  jest  the  same  as  if  she  wa'n't 
married." 

Just  then  the  door  was  thrown  violently  open, 
and  Jule  Peebles  hastily  entered,  and  without 
a  word  sat  down,  scowling. 

"Now  what's  wrftng?"  inquired  her  mother. 

"If  Milo  ain't  the  blamedest  feller!"  cried 
Jule,  angrily. 

"What's  he  done  now?"  asked  Ma,  indiffer 
ently,  for  she  was  used  to  Jule's  outbreaks. 

"  He's  goin'  to  bring  his  father — old  Grand  paw 
Peebles — to  live  with  us!" 

"What  say?"  cried  Ma,  astonished.  "To  live 
with  you!  No,  he'd  never  do  it;  for  it's  all  he 
can  do  now  to  support  you  and  the  twins." 

"Yes,  he  is,  too;  he  says  his  father's  all  broke 
up  since  Grandmaw  Peebles'  death,  'cause  Grand- 
maw  she  always  run  things." 

"  The  women  of  the  family  generally  has  to, 
I've  noticed,"  remarked  Ma. 

"And  Milo  says  his  pa  '11  have  to  go  to  the 
poorhouse  if  we  don't  take  him  in.  Land,  I 
wish  I'd  never  been  born!" 

For  once  Ma  Flickinger  had  no  comfort  to 
204 


GRANDPAW    PEEBLES 

offer    her    daughter.     "  How    old    is    he?"    she 
asked. 

"Pretty  nigh  eighty.  Milo  says  he  won't  be 
much  trouble." 

"Mebbe  he  won't,"  encouraged  her  mother. 

"Mebbe  he  will.  I  don't  know  what  I'll  do 
when  he  comes.  I  can't  hardly  navigate  now  in 
the  house,  what  with  the  twins  a-tumblin'  into 
everything,  and  a-jaggin'  down  everything  that 
I  put  up,  and  a-dirtyin'  everything  that  I  clean; 
and  Wopsie,  their  pup,  a-chewin'  up  everything 
they  don't  muck  up." 

"Well,"  began  Ma,  thoughtfully,  "he's  Milo's 
pa,  and  a  old  man,  and  you'll  have  to  make  the 
best  of  it." 

"  You  don't  have  to  have  him  under  foot," 
sniffed  Jule. 

"But  he's  a  relation,"  said  Ma,  impressively, 
"and  he's  a  old,  old  man,  and  you  ought  to 
make  it  pleasant  for  him." 

"Pleasant  nothin'!"  returned  Jule.  "I'll  give 
him  a  taste  of  life  that  '11  make  him  set  up  and 
ask  questions!  I'll  pepper  his  way  all  right,  all 
right!" 

"You  mustn't  forgit  that  he's  Milo's  pa," 
reminded  her  mother,  already  on  the  side  of 
Grandpa w  Peebles. 

205 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"I  wouldn't  want  my  own  father  under  foot 
all  the  time,"  declared  Jule. 

"A  man  in  the  house  does  set  a  woman  on 
aidge,"  admitted  Ma.  "Land!  don't  I  remem 
ber  when  Cousin  Becker  Mosely  used  to  set 
around  here  so  much;  and  sometimes  when  he 
used  to  git  to  tellin'  his  long-winded  yarns  I 
used  to  wish  he'd  go  up ;  but,  for  all  that,  I  never 
let  him  know  it.  For  you  can't  help  havin' 
thoughts  about  people;  but  it  don't  hurt  'em 
none  if  they  don't  know  nothin'  about  'em. 
But  you've  got  to  treat  Milo's  father  right,  Jule ; 
there  ain't  no  two  ways  about  it." 

"I  thought  mebbe  you'd  tell  me  not  to  have 
him  'round  at  all,"  cried  Jule,  "and  here  you  are 
standin'  up  for  him!" 

"  It's  a  duty — 'pears  like,"  said  Ma,  solemnly. 

"A  mighty  queer  duty,"  snapped  Jule. 

"That's  what  you  took  Milo  for — better  or 
worse,"  Ma  told  her. 

"'Took  Milo  for,'  for  the  land  sakes!  I  took 
Milo  because  I  was  a  fool  and  he  was  a  fool, 
and  nobody  had  sense  enough  to  stop  us." 

"You  took  Milo  for  better  or  for  worse,"  re 
peated  Ma,  with  warmth,  "and  the  united  king 
dom  of  heaven  or  earth  couldn't  have  stopped 
your  marryin'  Milo — and  you  know  it!" 

206 


GRANDPAW    PEEBLES 

"  I  wa'n't  old  enough  to  know  my  own  mind," 
returned  Jule,  sullenly. 

"Well,  you're  gittin'  old  enough  to  find  it  out 
now,"  informed  her  mother,  "and  if  you've  got 
more'n  you  like  along  with  Milo  you'll  have  to 
lump  it." 

"There's  a  place  for  poor  folks  like  Grand- 
paw  Peebles  to  go  to,"  cried  Jule,  heartlessly. 

"If  it  was  your  pa,  would  Milo  want  him  to  go 
to  the  poorhouse?  Wouldn't  he  take  Pa  in?" 
asked  Ma,  sharply. 

"  Yes;  I  suppose  Milo  'd  take  in  the  hull  United 
States  and  Canada  if  they  wanted  takin'  in,  he's 
that  wishie-washie." 

"And  you  ain't  all  the  folks  that's  got  trouble, 
either,  Jule;  here's  your  pa,  he's  in  hot  water 
half  his  time  at  the  factory;  and  he's  gettin' 
touchier'n  tunket." 

"  Oh,  Pa's  always  grumblin'  over  somethin' 
or  other.  Now  I  don't  never  complain,"  stated 
Jule,  "unless  I've  got  a  mighty  good  reason." 

"Well,  your  pa  thinks  he's  got  good  reason 
to  be  worried,  too;  but  he's  carryin'  out  the  boss' 
orders  to  the  letter,  that's  what's  the  matter 
with  your  pa;  if  he  wa'n't  so  straight  and  so 
conscientious,  he'd  make  more  friends  with  the 
men;  they  can't  run  him." 

207 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"Will  he  lose  his  job?"  Jule  wanted  to  know. 

"  I  dunno  as  he'll  lose  it ;  but  he's  havin'  a  mighty 
hard  time  to  hold  it  down,  I  can  tell  you  that." 

"Let  'em  fight  it  out  together,"  advised  Jule, 
easily,  who  had  no  interest  in  anybody's  troubles 
but  her  own,  and  she  returned  with  more  bitter 
ness  than  ever  to  Grandpa w  Peebles.  "I'd  ruther 
'a'  had  a  dozen  old  women  to  care  for  than  one 
old  man." 

"It  '11  be  a  cross,  Jule;  but  mebbe  it  won't  be 
as  bad  as  you  look  forward  to,"  was  all  the  con 
solation  Ma  could  offer. 

"It'll  be  worse,"  prophesied  Jule,  gloomily. 
"  I  don't  never  go  nowheres  now,  but  if  he  comes 
I'll  be  tied  hand  and  foot." 

"Now  remember,"  was  Ma's  parting  injunc 
tion,  as  her  daughter  started  home,  "don't  sass 
Grandpaw  Peebles.  You  ought  to  have  more 
fetchin'  up  than  to  hector  a  poor,  dependent  old 
gent — let  alone  your  own  husband's  father.  Be 
decent,  Jule;  it  '11  pay  in  the  end." 

"  I  sha'n't,  neither,  be  decent;  I  hate  him  now, 
and  I  ain't  enough  of  a  hypocrite  to  pretend  I 
don't,"  stormed  Jule. 

"Grandpaw  '11  probably  be  here  right  after 
dinner,"  Milo  informed  his  wife,  when  the  day 
came  for  her  father-in-law  to  arrive. 

208 


GRANDPAW    PEEBLES 

"How  '11  he  git  up  here?" 

"The  neighbor  that  bought  his  ticket  wrote 
that  he'd  give  him  enough  for  hack- fare." 

"Dinner's  ready,"  announced  Jule. 

"It  won't  be  long  till  Paw  '11  be  here,  prob 
ably,"  hesitated  Milo. 

"What  of  that?"  snapped  Jule. 

"  He'll  want  to  eat,  won't  he  ?"  Her  husband 's 
voice  was  mild. 

"Yes;  but  I  can't  wait  dinner  for  your  pa 
or  anybody  else;  he'll  have  to  take  us  as  he 
finds  us." 

So  Milo  obediently  sat  down  to  his  dinner; 
but  when  they  had  finished  eating,  he  himself 
put  the  potatoes  and  meat  back  on  the  stove 
to  keep  warm. 

Grandpa w  Peebles,  with  his  modest  carpet-bag, 
was  soon  shunted  from  the  depot  hack  on  to 
their  front  lawn,  and  Milo  went  out  to  welcome 
him.  Grandpaw  was  a  mild  little  man  that 
none  of  the  Flickingers  had  ever  seen  before. 
He  had  eyebrows  and  mustache  and  goatee  and 
bushy  hair,  all  alike  wan  and  faded,  and  strange 
ly  resembling  grass  that  had  lain  long  under 
snow  and  still  had  snow  clinging  to  it. 

"How  de  do,  Mis'  Peebles,"  said  the  old  man, 
and  looked  at  Jule  as  humbly  as  a  friendly  dog 

209 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

might;  and  Jule  suddenly  held  out  her  hand 
to  her  father-in-law,  and  said  stiffly,  but  not 
unkindly,  "Glad  to  meet  you."  Perhaps  Ma's 
admonition  to  be  decent  had  not  been  entirely 
lost  on  her. 

"Is  these  the  twinses?"  he  cried,  his  old  face 
brightening  into  a  smile  at  the  sight  of  Janice 
and  Jasper,  sturdy  babies  of  two  years,  that  were 
tumbling  about  with  Wopsie,  their  ragged 
puppy. 

"This  here  dark-headed  one's  Jasper,"  in 
formed  Jule. 

"  Jarsper,  well,  well! — named  after  me.  Come 
here,  Jarsper.  And  t'other  one?" 

"Janice.  Set  up  and  eat,"  invited  Jule. 
"Milo  and  me  Ve  jest  et,  but  I've  kept  it  all  hot 
for  you." 

Grandpaw  Peebles'  life  had  long  been  cast  in 
a  mould  by  his  energetic  wife,  and  he  now  pur 
sued  his  accustomed  course  as  strictly  as  if  she 
were  still  alive.  He  fished  industriously  and 
successfully  in  the  river  and  lake,  which  were 
not  far  away,  and  he  peddled  his  fish  untiringly. 
And  he  always  gave  the  money  to  Jule,  as  he 
had  for  many  years  given  it  to  Grandma  w 
Peebles. 

But  in  many  ways  he  was  as  irresponsible  as 

2IO 


HE    FISHED    INDUSTRIOUSLY 


GRANDPAW    PEEBLES 

the  twins  themselves,  having  a  special  disregard 
for  meal-times;  yet  there  was  no  foolishness  in 
his  fishing,  and  no  forgetfulness  when  it  came 
to  the  twins,  whom  he  never  tired  of  tending. 
And  he  was  unfailingly  courteous  to  "Mis' 
Peebles,"  as  he  always  called  his  son's  wife. 

Though  Jule  was  pacified  at  first  by  the  old 
man's  quiet,  respectful  ways,  and  his  love  of  her 
children,  he  had  incurred  her  wrath  by  his 
neglect  of  his  meals,  and  she  was  determined  to 
break  him  of  it. 

"Be  back,  sure,  at  twelve,"  ordered  Jule,  one 
day,  "if  you  want  any  dinner  at  this  house; 
it  '11  be  on  the  table  when  the  whistle  blows." 

"I'll  be  here,  Mis'  Peebles,"  promised  Grand- 
paw,  readily.  ^ 

But  it  was  almost  supper-time  when  the  old 
man  came  trudging  home  with  his  empty  bas 
ket,  and  triumphantly  handed  Jule  seventy-five 
cents;  but  even  this  munificence,  for  once,  failed 
to  please  his  daughter-in-law,  and  she  broke  into 
a  shrill  torrent  of  reproach. 

"  I  plumb  forgot  all  about  dinner,  Mis'  Pee 
bles,"  he  answered,  softly  but  sadly;  for  it  was 
the  first  time  that  Jule  had  ever  scolded  him. 
"The  fish  was  so  plenty  that  I  jest  couldn't 
think  of  nothin'  else — and  I  sold  'em  all." 
is  213 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"Do  you  think,"  cried  Jule,  "that  it's  any 
fun  for  me  to  cook  for  you,  or  for  Milo  to  sup 
port  you,  when  you  act  like  this?  Ain't  it 
enough  to  have  you  around  all  the  time  without 
your  makin'  it  worse  by  puttin'  me  all  out  at 
meal-times  —  and  things  a-spoilin'  because  you 
don't  eat  'em?" 

Grandpaw  nodded  his  bleached  old  head 
drearily  in  mute  acquiescence  of  all  Jule  said, 
and  falteringly  began  to  eat  the  lunch  that  she 
grudgingly  set  out  for  him. 

As  she  saw  the  old  man  patiently  eating,  like 
a  faithful  dog  that  had  been  scolded,  Jule  found 
herself  relenting.  Had  he  jawed  back  she 
would  have  delighted  to  quarrel  with  him,  but 
his  being  so  gentle,  so  humble,  and  apparently 
agreeing  with  all  she  said  quite  disarmed  her. 

"I'm  goin'  to  put  a  hull  quarter  of  this  fish 
money  in  the  chiny  elephant  for  the  twinses," 
she  said,  pleasantly,  at  last. 

."Be  ye?"  he  asked,  eagerly,  and  the  shadow 
that  had  clouded  his  face  lifted.  "  Now  that  '11 
help." 

Ma  Flickinger  was  surprised  when  Jule  ceased 
scolding  about  her  father-in-law,  and  began  to 
think  that  maybe  things  were  so  bad  that  for 
once  Jule  lacked  words. 

214 


GRANDPAW    PEEBLES 

"  I  think  you've  got  a  hard  row  to  hoe  with  that 
old  gent,  if  you  don't  say  much,"  sympathized 
Ma,  one  morning,  when  Jule  was  over;  "not 
but  what  it's  right  for  you  to  do  your  duty  by 
him,  but  it's  a  constant  care." 

"  I  dunno,"  answered  Jule,  unexpectedly, 
"he  ain't  any  worse  than  any  fool  man." 

"Still,  there's  extra  cookin'." 

"He  earns  more'n  his  keep,  fishin'." 

"But  winter's  comin'  on;  then  he  can't  fish. 
What  does  he  do  now,  days  when  it  rains?" 

"Sews  carpet  rags,"  answered  Jule. 

"  Land  o'  Goshen !    Where 'd  you  git  the  rags  ?" 

"Our  house  ain't  got  nothin'  else  in  it  but 
rags,"  declared  Jule.  "We're  goin'  to  have  a 
new  sittin'-room  carpet." 

"Here!"  cried  Ma,  hurriedly  diving  into  the 
bedroom  closet.  "Here's  my  old  red  calico 
Mother  -  Hubbard  —  nothin'  but  slits.  Want 
it?" 

Jule  grabbed  it  greedily.  "Grandpaw  and  me 
was  wonderin'  jest  yisterday  what  we'd  do  for 
a  red  stripe." 

"And  here  'tis,"  laughed  Ma.  "Got  enough 
blue?" 

"  Plenty;  and  say,  Ma,  don't  you  want  Grand- 
paw  to  make  you  a  dinin'-room  carpet  after 

215 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

mine's  done?  He  knows  all  about  plannin' 
stripes  and  warp  and  everything." 

"Land!"  exclaimed  Ma,  delighted  at  the  idea. 
"Would  he  do  it?" 

"He'd  be  glad  to,"  answered  Jule. 

"For  the  land  sakes,  whatever  give  old  Mr. 
Peebles  that  turn?" 

"  Grandma w  Peebles  always  had  him  at  it 
winters,  and  he  says  he'd  kinder  miss  it." 

"How's  he  comin'  now  at  dinner-time;  does 
he  show  up  reg'lar?"  questioned  Ma. 

"Well,  he  lays  out  to;  but  sometimes,  if  the 
fish  git  to  bitin'  too  scrumptious,  he's  a  little 
late." 

"'Tain't  more'n  human,"  allowed  Ma.  "And 
ain't  he  a  pleasant-spoken  old  gentleman?" 

"Tumble,"  responded  Jule.  "And  me  and 
Grandpaw's  startin'  a  fund." 

"A  fund?"  repeated  Ma,  puzzled.  "Goin'  to 
help  the  hospital?" 

"Land,  no!    It's  to  educate  the  twins." 

"Saved  much?"  asked  Ma,  incredulously. 

"One  dollar  and  sixty-eight  cents.  It's  in 
the  chiny  elephant  on  the  mantel,  where  the 
twins  can't  git  their  claws  onto  it.  Grandpaw 
says  he  never  had  no  chanct  to  educate  Milo, 
'cause  Grandmaw  Peebles  was  always  ag'in  it 

216 


GRANDPAW    PEEBLES 


— she   believed   in   workin'   all  the  time.     But 
he's  goin'  to  help  with  the  twins." 

"Lemme  see  if  I  ain't  got  a  cent  'round  loose 
somewheres  in  my  work-basket;  yes,  here  'tis." 

"It  all  counts  up,"  said  Jule,  pocketing  the 
copper. 

"Whose  idee  was  it?" 

"Grandpaw's,"  returned  Jule. 

"Might  'a'  knowed  it." 

Not  long  after  this,  Ma  Flickinger  stopped  at 
Jule's  on  her  way  home  from  town,  and  found 
them  in  the  wildest  confusion.  Jule  was  crying 
and  shrieking  at  the  same  time,  and  Janice  and 
Jasper  were  howling  lustily,  while  Grandpa w 
Peebles  was  wiping  the  perspiration  from  his 
old  face,  which  now  showed  red  with  emotion. 

"Stop  your  noise,  everybody,"  commanded 
Ma,  shrilly,  above  the  hubbub,  "and  tell  a  feller 
what's  happened.  Jule,  shut  up;  what. ails  you ?" 

"Nothin',"  sobbed  Jule;   "oh,  o-oh!— " 

"  Have  you  been  takin'  out  your  tantrums  on 
Grandpaw,  here?"  demanded  Ma. 

The  little  old  man  shook  his  head  dumbly 
but  emphatically  in  exoneration  of  Jule. 

"For  the  land  sakes!  then  what  is  up?"  cried 
Ma,  exasperated.  "You  all  act  as  if  the  house 
was  on  fire." 

217 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

At  this  Jule  sobbed  louder  than  ever. 

"Us  here  have  been  greatly  spared,"  said  the 
old  man,  solemnly;  "the  twinses  have  been  nigh 
unto — unto — "  But  his  old  voice  trailed  off  into 
silence. 

"  They'd  both  been  dead  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
Grandpa w,  here,"  said  Jule,  excitedly.  "Grand- 
paw  jerked  'em  out'n  certain  death." 

"What!"  cried  Ma,  not  yet  greatly  impressed. 
"Has  the  young  ones  been  a-runnin'  afore  a 
grocery  wagon  ag'in?" 

"Worse'n  that,"  informed  Jule,  tragically; 
"they  was  all  but  burned  up!" 

"No!"  cried  Ma,  indifference  giving  way  to 
fear.  "Don't  tell  me  that!" 

"But  it's  the  livin'  truth!"  testified  Jule. 
"The  twins  got  afire  in  the  coal -shed  t'other 
end  of  the  lot  while  I  was  ironin'  in  the  kitchen." 

"You  ought  to  'a'  knowed  better  than  to  give 
the  twins  matches,"  blamed  Ma. 

"I  never  did;  they  got  a  burnin'  stick  from 
Mis'  Jones'  trash-pile.  And  oh,  dear,  it's  been 
awful!  But  Grandpa  w  he  come  jest  time 
enough  to  put  it  out." 

"Here,  stop  that  noise!"  cried  Ma  to  the 
twins,  and,  after  wiping  her  eyes,  she  took 
both  the  children  on  her  lap  and  comforted  them. 

218 


GRANDPAW    PEEBLES 

"  How'd  you  happen  to  know  about  the  fire, 
Mr.  Peebles?" 

"  I  was  fishin'  away  in  the  river,  and  suddint- 
like  I  seemed  to  hear  the  twinses  a-callin' 
'Grandpaw!'  jest  like  they  will.  And  I  knowed 
I  must  'a'  been  mistaken;  but  I  didn't  take  no 
interest  in  the  fishin'  after  that.  I  didn't  know 
what  ailded  me,  I  was  that  uneasy.  But  finally 
I  heard  it  ag'in,  faint  but  clear — seemed  to  come 
from  the  inside  of  my  head  some  way — 'magina- 
tion,  mebbe,  I  dunno;  anyway,  I  had  to  come 
home. 

"  And  I  found  the  twinses  a-playin'  with  a  neat 
little  fire  in  the  wood-shed.  I  had  a  sort  of 
leadin'  I'd  find  'em  there.  Jarsper  'd  got  his 
little  apron  a-blazin',  and  Janice  was  a-tryin'  to 
set  hern  afire.  And  I  wropped  my  coat  quick- 
like  'round  Jarsper  and  stomped  the  fire  out'n 
the  stick— that's  all." 

And  the  old  man,  unwilling  to  listen  to  an 
extended  discussion  of  the  rescue,  slouched 
silently  out  and  returned  to  the  river. 

"Providence,"  declared  Ma,  "must  'a'  nudged 
Grandpaw  for  sure." 

4 '  Grandpa w's  the  best  there  is,"  praised  Jule, 
tearfully;  "he's  done  more  than  save  the  twinses 
from  goin'  up  in  smoke,  too:  he's  teachin'  'em 

219 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

to  mind.     Here,  Jasper,  go  and  set  on  that  chair, 
and  Janice  on  t'other  one." 

And,  to  the  utter  astonishment  of  their  grand 
mother,  the  children  climbed  laboriously  onto 
the  chairs  and  obediently  sat  down. 

"  Now  you  see,  Jule,  how  much  better  it  was  to 
treat  Grand  paw  decent.  If  you'd  'a'  driv  him  off  to 
the  poorhouse,  where'd  your  twins  'a'  been  now?" 

"But  it  wa'n't  the  way  I  treated  Grandpaw 
Pebbles  that  made  him  stay;  it  was  the  way 
he  treated  me — always  like  a  born  lady,"  ex 
plained  Jule.  "  I  was  plumb  set  ag'in  him,  and  I 
didn't  take  no  pains  to  hide  it,  neither." 

"His  extra  goodness  kinder  wiped  out  your 
meanness,  'pears  like,"  said  her  mother. 

"And  me  and  Grandpaw  go  places,  too.  Yis- 
terday  we  took  the  twins  over  to  Silver  Beach 
for  the  hull  afternoon;  next  week  we're  goin' 
up  to  Berrien  Springs.  Milo  says  there  ain't 
no  springs  there,  but  we're  goin'  up  on  the 
interburban  to  see." 

"The    interrw&an,  you  mean,"  corrected  Ma. 

"And  Grandpaw  hands  me  every  cent  he 
earns — jest  as  willin'." 

"It's  a  habit  he  got  into  with  Grandmaw 
Peebles,  I  suppose,"  said  Ma;  "she  always  car 
ried  the  pocket-book,  accordin'  to  Milo." 

220 


GRANDPAW    PEEBLES 

"And  a  mighty  good  plan,  too,"  approved 
Jule.  "  When  did  Milo  ever  hand  me  out  a 
penny  without  my  gougin'  it  out'n  him  like  I 
was  a  beggar?" 

"  But  Milo's  got  so  many  ways  for  his  money," 
reminded  Ma. 

"And  so've  I;  but  Milo  never  seems  to  think 
so.  But  Grandpa w's  got  sense  enough  to  realize 
that  a  woman  might  possibly  want  a  little  change 
onct  in  a  thousand  years. 

"And  Grandpaw's  teachin'  the  twins  their 
manners,"  continued  Jule.  "It's  'Thank  you, 
ma'am,'  to  me,  and  'No,  sir,'  to  their  father. 
Oh,  I  tell  you,  Ma,  Grandpaw's  a  polite  old  gent. 
He  won't  leave  the  twinses  pull  each  other's 
hair,  neither,  any  more;  he  says  it  ain't  pretty. 
Grandpaw's  a  great  hand  to  rid  up,  too.  He 
says, '  Let's  have  a  place  for  everything  and  every 
thing  in  its  place '  (Grandmaw  Peebles  was  tum 
ble  neat) .  And  I  says, '  We  ain't  got  no  place  for 
nothin'  in  this  little  hole  of  a  house,  but  we'll 
make  a  n'awful  effort  to  put  'em  there,  anyway.' ' 

"  I  don't  know  how  you'd  bring  up  the  twinses 
if  'twa'n't  for  Grandpa w,"  said  Ma. 

"Land  knows,  I  don't  know  what  to  do  with 
'em,"  acknowledged  Jule;  "and  Milo  he  ain't 
got  no  ideas  about  nothin',  neither." 

221 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"  Grandpaw  come  up  here  jest  the  right  time," 
declared  Ma;  "you  needn't  tell  me  that  folks 
don't  come  into  your  life  when  you  need  'em 
most,  'cause  they  do.  I've  always  wondered 
what  on  earth  'd  become  of  your  twins  when 
they  got  big  enough  to  be  under  foot,  but  Grand- 
paw  Peebles  was  sent,  and  I  needn't  have  worried 
at  all." 

"And  it  scares  me,"  said  Jule,  contritely, 
"  when  I  think  that  I  treated  him  so  mean  that 
he  might  have  gone  off  and  never  come  back." 

"Sometimes  them  as  ain't  got  sense  enough 
to  do  the  right  thing  is  protected — I've  no 
ticed  that  right  along,"  observed  Ma,  philo 
sophically. 

"Grandpaw  is  the  best  there  is,"  said  Jule, 
heartily. 

"Land,  but  the  world  is  full  of  the  best  kind 
of  folks!"  moralized  Ma  Flickinger. 


XI 

THE    SOCIAL    WHIRL 

PA  FLICKINGER    threw  down    the  daily 
paper  in   disgust.     He  had  been  reading 
while  his  wife  mended  by  the  light  of  the 
glass-bangled  hanging  lamp  in  the  sitting-room. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  table  Opal  was  studying 
her    lessons;     while   Jed,    just    home   from   the 
Agricultural  College  on  his  first  vacation,   was 
humped  over  a  book. 

"Now  what's  wrong?"  demanded  Ma  Flick- 
inger  of  Pa. 

"This  here  fool  society  pow-wow,"  com 
plained  Pa.  "Folks  has  all  kinds  of  scrappin's 
and  clashin's  in  business  and  politics,  and  then 
they  go  and  entertain  theirselves  socially,  and 
bow  and  scrape  as  if  nothin'  disagreeable  had 
ever  happened.  I've  jest  been  readin'  about 
it.  If  you've  got  a  home,  stay  in  it,  that's  my 
advice,  especially  evenin's,  after  you  've  been 
to  work." 

223 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"  Still,  it  makes  a  good  feeling  just  to  meet  for 
social  times,"  said  Sophie,  who,  with  her  hus 
band,  had  dropped  in  to  spend  the  evening. 

"Yes;  but,  Sophie,  you  don't  know  how  hol 
ler  it  all  is,"  explained  Pa.  "Take  our  neigh 
borhood  here  on  Pine  Street,  for  instance ;  we're 
all  decent,  hard-workin'  folks,  own  our  own 
homes,  and  pay  our  taxes,  and  try  to  live  right; 
but  jest  as  soon  as  we  begin  to  earn  a  cent  above 
actual  expenses,  somebody  starts  up  a-havin' 
surprise  parties,  and  then  every  blamed  neigh 
bor's  got  to  be  surprised  or  his  feelin's  are  hurt. 

"I'd  ruther  take  a  thrashin'  myself  than  go  to 
a  party;  and  then  there's  always  the  infernal 
present — somethin'  useless  that  nobody  wants, 
bought  with  nickels  that  nobody  wants  to  give. 
Then  the  daily  paper  comes  out  with  glarin' 
headlines,  'So-and-So  was  surprised  by  a  jolly 
crowd  of  neighbors  what  fetched  So-and-So  a 
beautiful  present,  to  which  So-and-So  responded 
with  a  few  well-chosen  words;  or  else  they  give 
So-and-So  a  bunch  of  flowers,  as  a  small  token 
of  So-and-So's  popularity';  when,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  nobody  'd  give  So-and-So  a  pleasant  look  if 
some  blitherin'  idiot  hadn't  made  'em  do  it. 
Praise  be,  we  ain't  enough  account  to  git  sur 
prised!" 

224 


THE    SOCIAL    WHIRL 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  objected  Billie, 
bluntly. 

"  If  anybody  ever  wanted  to  give  the  pres 
ent,"  went  on  Pa,  "it  'd  be  different;  but  they 
don't.  They  have  to  give  it,  or  how'd  it  look?" 

"Still,  I  think  parties  are  nice  among  friends," 
stoutly  maintained  Sophie. 

"Looks  like  it  to  you,"  responded  Pa,  in 
dulgently;  "but  even  then  they're  holler — every 
last  one  of  'em  's  holler.  But  you  ain't  nobody 
nowadays,  'pears  like,  if  you  ain't  in  the  social 
whirl." 

"Things  must  be  goin'  worse  at  the  factory, 
the  way  you  growl  every  night,"  observed  Ma. 
"  You  can't  mention  a  subject,  Sophie,  but  what 
Pa's  got  somethin'  ag'in  it,  whether  it's  plantin' 
potatoes — krout-time — or  wonderin'  who  the  Gov 
ernor  is  now.  Bein'  '  Supe  '  of  your  part  of  the 
factory,  Pa,  seems  to  be  sourin'  you." 

"Mebbe  'tis;  but  jest  as  soon  as  you  try  to 
do  right  in  this  world  everything  goes  wrong," 
remarked  Pa,  pessimistically. 

"  But  you  have  the  satisfaction  of  knowin' 
that  however  grouchy  the  men  act  that's  under 
you  at  the  factory,  that  you've  done  your  duty 
by  them,"  argued  Ma. 

"Nothin'  great  in  that,"  returned  Pa.  "It's 
225 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

a  poor  stick  that  can't  do  his  duty;  but  what  I 
object  to  is  the  cussedness  of  things  in  general 
that  makes  the  men  so  thick-headed  that  they 
can't  see  justice." 

"Things  didn't  used  to  be  so  bad  afore  you 
was  'Supe,'"  worried  Ma. 

"  Oh,  I  dunno;  about  the  same;  only  the  man 
afore  me  whipped  around  with  the  wind  and 
kept  in  with  the  boys  more,  whereas  I  stick  to 
my  word  whether  it  pleases  or  not;  but  some 
times  I  wish  I  was  a  worthless  guy  that  didn't 
have  no  responsibility.  But  they're  an  igger- 
ant  gang  at  the  factory,  and  that's  all  they  be; 
nobody  could  please  'em." 

"I  don't  see  how  you  git  along  with  'em  as 
well  as  you  do,"  admired  Ma;  "I'd  fly  into  a 
hundred  pieces  and  cuff  'em  with  whatever 
come  handiest." 

"I'd  ruther  scrap  than  eat  when  things  go 
wrong,"  admitted  Pa;  "but  I  ain't  there  for 
that  purpose.  I  only  carry  out  the  boss'  orders ; 
and  if  I'm  a  fairish  '  Supe,'  it's  because  Mr.  Pey 
ton's  a  tiptop  boss." 

"You  may  be  popular  with  the  boys  yit," 
said  Ma,  hopefully. 

"Popularity's  a  rag,"  philosophized  Pa,  bit 
terly. 

226 


THE    SOCIAL    WHIRL 

"Why  don't  you  discharge  Joe  McKenna?" 
asked  Ma.  "So  far  as  I  can  see,  he  seems  to  be 
at  the  bottom  of  every  rumpus?" 

"Discharge  McKenna!"  cried  Pa,  astonished 
at  so  revolutionary  a  proposition.  "  He's  the  best 
workman  in  the  factory — none  excepted." 

"That's  right,"  affirmed  Bill,  grudgingly, 
who  had  no  love  for  McKenna. 

"But  look  how  he  acts,"  criticised  Ma. 

"Fernie  Bistle  said  that  Pa  'most  had  a  fight 
with  McKenna  yesterday,"  informed  Opal. 

"Opal,  shut  up  about  affairs  you  don't  know 
nothin'  of,  and  don't  repeat  what  every  foolish 
young  one  says,"  reproved  her  mother.  "Some 
kids  '11  manufacture  enough  lies  in  a  day  to  start 
a  fib  factory;  keep  shut  of  such,  and  git  hold  of 
that  joggerfy  as  if  you  meant  business." 

"McKenna  can't  help  how  he  acts,"  defended 
Pa,  "it's  born  in  him;  he's  like  a  ornery  plant 
that's  useful  if  you  keep  it  in  bounds,  but  'd 
overrun  the  whole  country  if  you  didn't." 

"Sometimes  I  wish  you  wa'n't  superintend 
ent,"  worried  Ma.  "  It's  more  money,  but  look 
at  all  the  trouble." 

"Fernie  Bistle  says — "  began  Opal,  eager  to 
contribute  something  more  to  the  conversation. 

"Opal,  what  did  I  tell  you?"  warned  her 
227 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

mother.  "You  ought  to  know  better  than  to 
bother  your  father  by  repeatin'  some  fool  young 
one's  clack.  It's  funny  you  can't  put  your 
mind  on  your  lessons  and  keep  it  there.  You'll 
be  gettin'  B  ag'in  this  year.  I  ain't  saw  a  n'A  on 
your  report-card  for  so  long  that  I  dunno  's  I'd 
reco'nize  it  if  I  did  see  it,"  said  Ma,  bitterly; 
for  she  was  keeping  Opal  in  school  every  day 
now,  and  was  disappointed  because  the  child, 
who  had  never  attended  school  regularly  before, 
did  not  at  once  blossom  into  a  fine  scholar. 

"I  try  to  git  A,"  declared  Opal. 

"Oh,  you  try  to,  do  you?  Then  let's  see  you 
do  it!" 

"H  an  A  '11  make  your  Ma  happy,  then  git 
it,  Opal,"  advised  Pa,  gloomily. 

"'Tain't  what  an  A  '11  do  for  me,"  snapped 
Ma;  "but  a  continual  B  in  all  of  her  studies 
looks  as  if  Opal  wa'n't  bright." 

"Who  in  tunket's  raisin'  all  this  rumpus?" 
growled  Pa,  as  he  heard  strange  noises  out 
side. 

"  Like  enough  it  was  company  coming," 
smiled  Sophie,  while  Bill  grinned  broadly. 

"  Our  street's  gettin'  to  be  a  reg'lar  hobo  pike," 
complained  Pa,  as  the  sounds  increased.  "It's 
a  pity  a  hard-workin'  feller  like  me  can't  set 

228 


THE    SOCIAL    WHIRL 

down  to  rest  in  his  own  home  without  all  the 
calithumpians  in  creation  a-bangin'  'round  his 
premises!" 

Boisterous  knocks  on  the  street  door  sent  Pa 
hurrying  angrily  in  that  direction.  Wrenching 
open  the  door,  he  was  confronted  by  a  mob  of 
familiar  faces  and  a  hilarious  chorus  of  greet 
ings.  And  foremost  among  the  crowd  stood 
Mr.  Peyton,  Pa's  boss,  jolly  and  substantial. 
And  as  if  that  were  not  sufficiently  disconcerting, 
by  his  side  was  Joe  McKenna,  a  broad  smile 
illuminating  his  dour  features. 

"Don't  we  git  invited  in?"  inquired  Mrs. 
Bistle,  who  was  one  of  their  near  neighbors. 

"Sure  thing;  step  in,  step  in,"  invited  Pa,  in 
a  daze,  while  the  crowd  poured  by  him,  shaking 
hands  and  joking. 

Sophie  directed  the  men  and  women  where 
to  put  their  wraps,  and  then  shooed  whole  dele 
gations  into  the  front  room,  proving  herself  an 
efficient  mistress  of  ceremonies,  while  Ma  took 
charge  of  the  provisions  with  which  each  woman 
was  laden. 

Pa  Flickinger,  rising  by  slow  degrees  to  the 

occasion,    started    to    his    son    Bill's   for    extra 

chairs,  only  to  find   Bill  there  before  him,  his 

neck  encased  in  an  extremely  high  collar;   but 

16  229 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

so  uplifted  was  Bill  by  the  excitement  that  he 
scarcely  noticed  the  discomfort. 

Soon  after  the  guests  arrived,  Ma  called  Sophie 
and  Jule,  who  had  come  with  the  crowd,  into  the 
kitchen.  "Lookie  here,  girls,"  she  cried,  in  a 
nervous,  high-pitched  voice,  "they  ain't  fetched 
nothin'  to  eat  but  one  cake  and  about  a  ton  of 
pickles!" 

"Mis'  Bistle  said  there  was  always  so  much 
cake  at  a  party  that  some  of  us  'd  better  bring 
pickles,  and  I  guess  most  of  us  did.  Ain't  it 
funny?"  giggled  Jule. 

"Funny!  No,"  cried  Ma,  tragically,  "it's 
awful!  What  're  we  goin'  to  do  for  supper? 
I'm  plumb  squelched.  Land!  I  wish  folks  'd 
stay  to  home.  Your  Pa  didn't  want  a  party, 
and  I  don't  blame  him.  Sophie,  what  '11  we  do  ?" 

"There  could  be  fried  cakes  and  coffee,"  said 
Sophie,  quickly  considering.  "You  make  the 
best  fried  cakes  ever;  and  your  coffee  —  no 
body  makes  better.  And  then  we  have  enough 
pickles,  already." 

"  I  could  do  that,"  said  Ma,  brightening.  "  I'll 
begin  right  now,  and  then  there'll  be  plenty  of 
time.  And  you  tell  the  other  women  I'd  ruther 
do  it  alone.  I  don't  want  nobody  stickin'  in  if 
I'm  goin'  to  have  success  with  the  cakes." 

230 


THE    SOCIAL    WHIRL 

"I  know  they'll  be  fine,"  encouraged  Sophie, 
and  then  hurried  away  to  entertain  the  guests. 

"And,  Jule,  you  git  out  of  here,  too;  you 
make  me  nervous  standin'  starin'  'round," 
scolded  Ma.  "Go  in  and  see  if  the  folks  have 
all  got  chairs.  And,  for  the  land  sakes,  keep 
talkin'  about  somethin';  if  there's  anything  I 
do  hate,  it's  a  party  where  the  folks  won't  talk. 
Looks  as  if  somethin'  was  wrong  with  the  folks 
they  was  visitin'." 

Left  to  herself,  Ma  Flickinger  investigated  the 
pantry  and  found  that  she  had  not  enough  sugar 
for  the  fried  cakes;  in  haste  she  sent  Jed  to  the 
corner  grocery. 

Jed  sped  away  on  his  errand,  glad  to  leave  the 
embarrassing  company;  for  he  was  an  over 
grown,  bashful  boy,  inarticulate,  and  often  sul 
len,  and  he  was  in  that  awkward  transition 
stage  when  he  felt  very  important,  but  thought 
that  no  one  appreciated  him. 

When  his  mother  was  nearly  frantic  with 
waiting,  he  came  leisurely  in,  empty  handed. 

"Where's  your  sugar?"  demanded  Ma. 

"Store's  shut." 

"Land  o'  Goshen,  Jed,  are  you  a  plumb  fool? 
Don't  you  know  I've  got  to  have  sugar?  Go 
back  and  wake  Mr.  Gowdy  up,  double  quick." 

231 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"Where's  that  sugar?"  cried  his  mother,  when 
Jed  came  stamping  home  half  an  hour  later. 

"It's  ordered,"  answered  the  boy,  cheerfully. 

"But  didn't  you  bring  it  with  you?"  she  in 
quired,  anxiously. 

"No;  Gowdy,  he  ain't  got  none  now;  'twon't 
be  here  till  the  ten-twenty  train  to-morrow." 

"But  didn't  you  tell  him  there  was  a  party  to 
our  house,  and  that  we've  got  to  have  it  to 
night?" 

"He  can't  git  it  till  it  comes,"  returned  Jed, 
shortly. 

"But  he  ought  to  git  it  from  somewheres.  I 
never  sent  to  that  store  in  a  hurry  in  my  life 
that  they  had  what  I  sent  for.  It's  the  worst 
run  store.  Go  in  and  tell  Sophie;  mebbe  she's 
got  some." 

"Jeddie  '11  have  to  go  down -town  for  the 
sugar,"  decided  Sophie.  "I'm  just  out  of  sugar 
myself.  He  can  take  a  car,  so  it  won't  be  so 
very  long  till  you'll  have  it." 

"I  never  thought  of  that,"  said  Ma,  relieved. 
"And  remember,  Jed,  you  tote  that  sugar  home 
with  you." 

"I  ain't  no  fool  "  growled  Jed. 

"But  you're  such  a  heedless  loony,"  criticised 
his  mother. 

232 


THE    SOCIAL   WHIRL 

"You  talk  as  if  I  wa'n't  bright,"  protested 
the  boy,  dismally. 

"Don't  be  so  techy,"  reproved  Ma  Flickinger. 
"And  now  make  tracks.  Come  home  without 
that  sugar,  and  /'//  tell  your  Pa — see  if  I  don't!" 

Jed  departed  with  due  expedition,  and  came 
faithfully  back  so  much  sooner  than  his  mother 
expected  that  she  greeted  him  with:  "What 
ails  you,  Jed,  to  git  back  like  this?" 

"I  thought  you  wanted  the  sugar,"  said  Jed, 
gruffly. 

"I  do,  but  I  didn't  suppose  you'd  have  sense 
enough  to  fetch  it." 

Mandy  Fanner,  who  till  this  time  had  been  in 
the  front  part  of  the  house,  now  came  out  to  see 
if  there  was  anything  about  the  supper  that 
she  could  do. 

"Land  o'  livin',  Mandy,  where'd  you  come 
from?"  demanded  her  mother. 

"Elvie  and  me  has  been  tendin'  the  babies 
in  the  bedroom;  they's  pretty  nigh  a  dozen,  but 
most  are  sleepin'  now." 

"It  beats  me  how  folks  can  fetch  a  baby  to 
a  doin's  like  this,"  complained  Ma.  "No,  you 
can't  help  me,  Mandy;  nobody  can  do  nothin' 
when  I  git  started  on  a  fried-cake  job  like  this 
but  let  me  alone." 

233 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

Mandy  returned  to  the  company;  but  her 
mother  never  left  the  hot,  smoky  kitchen  ex 
cept  for  a  minute  or  two  at  a  time  to  see  that 
every  one  was  being  entertained;  but  the  con 
tinual  babble  of  voices  and  the  joyful  shouts 
over  the  games  of  tiddlewinks  and  flinch  in 
formed  her  that  everything  was  as  it  should  be. 

"How  're  you  gettin'  along,  Ma?"  Jule  wanted 
to  know. 

"I  ain't  dead  yit;  and  if  I  can  git  enough 
cakes  fried  and  coffee  made,  I  don't  care  what 
happens  after  that." 

"Who's  goin'  to  serve  supper?"  inquired  Jule. 

"Land!  I  plumb  forgot  that  all  this  here 
truck  has  got  to  git  took  in.  Ast  Sophie." 

"  Billie  and  me  and  Jeddie  and  Jule  '11  serve," 
promised  Sophie. 

"Is  it  'most  mornin'?"  questioned  Ma,  breath 
lessly,  when  the  last  fried  cake  was  out  of  the 
grease. 

"Only  half-past  'leven,"  said  Sophie;  "just 
the  time  to  serve  refreshments." 

"I  dunno,  Sophie,  about  your  workin'  Jed 
into  helpin'  pass  things;  he's  so  lumberin'," 
objected  Ma. 

"Of  course  he's  bashful  and  hates  to  do 
things  before  people,"  responded  Sophie;  "but 

234 


THE    SOCIAL    WHIRL 

that's  all  the  more  reason  he  should  try  to  be 
polite.  If  he  don't  get  polite  now,  how  '11  he 
grow  up?" 

"That  sounds  all  right,  Sophie,  when  you 
say  it;  but  Jed's  naturally  dumb — he  ain't  got 
it  in  him." 

"But  there's  Billie;  he  hated  to  make  him 
self  pleasant  with  folks  in  a  social  way  where 
he  wasn't  used  to  it;  but  I  just  kept  after  him, 
and  said,  'Billie,  you  can  do  as  good  as  the 
next.'  And  he  can,  too,"  added  Sophie,  proudly. 
"All  this  evening  Billie's  been  awful  polite  to 
everybody." 

"Yes,  Billie;  but,  Sophie,  he's  got  brass 
enough  to  carry  him  through  anything;  besides, 
Billie's  no  such  gawk  as  Jed.  I'll  allow  you've 
made  a  difference  in  Billie's  manners,  though 
he'd  never  'a'  done  it  for  rue." 

"Jeddie  can  learn  to  be  polite,  too,"  declared 
Sophie,  confidently.  "  I'll  show  him  how  to 
serve  this  evening,  and  some  day  he'll  be  glad 
of  it.  Besides,  now  he  goes  to  college,  maybe 
he  won't  be  so  bashful,  anyway ;  and  he  ought 
to  have  a  chance  to  learn  stylish  manners." 

"  If  he  makes  a  fool  of  hisself,  don't  blame  me," 
was  Ma's  reply. 

Then  Sophie  called  the  others  to  come  and  help. 
23S 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"Here,  Jeddie,  take  this."  And  Sophie  thrust 
a  large  tray  heaped  with  crisp,  brown  cakes  into 
his  unwilling  hands. 

"I  ain't  a-goin'  to  make  a  crazy  guy  of  my 
self,"  protested  Jed,  miserably. 

"Yes,  you  be,  too,"  contradicted  his  mother; 
"you've  got  to  do  it." 

"  I  ain't  a-feelin'  well,"  evaded  Jed. 

"We  need  you,  Jeddie;  but,  of  course,  if  you 
don't  feel  well — "  hesitated  Sophie,  sympatheti 
cally. 

"The  young  one  ain't  sick,  he's  ornery," 
spoke  up  Ma,  plainly.  "He  won't  do  nothin' 
for  you,  Sophie,  any  quicker  than  he  would  for 
the  rest  of  us." 

"Gimme  the  tray,"  grunted  Jed. 

"  But  he  won't  know  what  to  do  with  it  when 
he  gits  it,"  disparaged  his  mother.  "Better  git 
Opal  out  here;  she  could  pass  things  without 
breakin'  her  neck.  Jed's  so  clumsy!" 

"Opal's  playing  games  with  the  other  chil 
dren  up-stairs,"  informed  Sophie;  "it  wouldn't 
be  nice  for  her  to  leave  them  alone,  seeing  the 
party  is  at  Opal's  house." 

"I  guess  that's  right,"  assented  Ma.  "We 
ought  to  be  as  polite  as  we  know  how." 

"You  should  offer  the  tray  first  to  one  per- 
236 


THE   SOCIAL   WHIRL 

son,  then  to  another,"  Sophie  instructed  Jed, 
"saying,  'Fried  cakes!  fried  cakes!'" 

"Aw,  I  don't  want  to — dunno  how,"  objected 
Jed. 

"Try  it,  Jed,"  ordered  his  mother;  "practice 
on  us." 

Jed  sullenly  shunted  the  tray  at  his  mother, 
then  at  Sophie,  grunting,  "Fried  cakes,  fried 
cakes,"  with  about  as  much  invitation  to  eat 
in  his  tones  as  if  he  had  said,  "Poison,  poison." 

"Now  try  spoons,"  went  on  Sophie.  And  Jed 
allowed  the  spoon-holder  to  be  inserted  in  his 
limp  hand. 

"Try  the  spoons  on  us,"  commanded  his 
mother. 

"Fried  cakes,  fried  cakes,"  repeated  Jed, 
mechanically,  extending  the  spoons. 

"Great  gump!"  scolded  Ma. 

Sophie  took  the  spoons  and  handed  Jed  the 
tray  of  fried  cakes  again;  and  while  he  would 
not  have  hesitated  to  defy  his  mother,  he  could 
not  refuse  Sophie;  and  he  soon  found  himself 
circulating  woodenly  among  the  guests  with  the 
loaded  tray. 

With  a  great  deal  of  trotting  back  and  forth, 
running  into  each  other,  and  narrow  escapes, 
the  impromptu  waiters  carried  in  the  supper. 

237 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

Jed,  jostling  against  Jule,  knocked  several  cakes 
from  his  tray,  and  then  painstakingly  picked 
them  up  and  replaced  them,  when  his  mother 
cried  out,  in  amazement:  "Gracious  goodness, 
Jed  Flickinger,  ain't  you  got  your  wits?  Them 
fried  cakes  that  has  been  rollin'  around  on  the 
tiusty  floor  ain't  fitten  for  company.  Put  'em 
in  £he  pantry;  I'll  save  'em  for  Pa's  dinners,  so 
ihere  worl't  be  no  waste." 

"Mr.  Peyton,  Pa's  boss,  says  these  are  the 
best  cakes  he  ever  et,"  Jule  triumphantly  in 
formed  her  mother." 

"What's  that  to  you,  Jule?  You  didn't  make 
'em,"  scoffed  Jed. 

"Neither  did  you,  Smartie,"  returned  Jule. 
"And  you  know  you  wouldn't  do  a  thing  to 
help  us  out  if  you  wa'n't  stuck  on  Sophie." 

Jed,  who  secretly  adored  his  good  little  sister- 
in-law,  got  very  red  in  the  face,  but  for  once 
said  nothing  back. 

"Nobody  cares  who  he  does  it  for  as  long  as 
he  does  it,"  remarked  Ma. 

"And  now  in  goes  the  coffee,"  directed  the 
efficient  Sophie.  And  along  with  the  first  tray 
went  the  impressed  waiter  Jed,  doing  his  task 
automatically,  like  a  machine. 

"Where's  Pa?  Good  land!  I  ain't  thought 
238 


THE    SOCIAL    WHIRL 

of  Pa  nor  saw  him  since  this  thing  begun!"  ex 
claimed  Ma. 

"He's  making  himself  pleasant  with  every 
body  in  the  front  room,"  Sophie  assured  her. 

"And  is  Butch  Fanner  here,  and  Mort  and 
Milo?"  Ma  wanted  to  know. 

"All  entertaining  themselves  with  the  rest. 
Mr.  Fanner  's  telling  the  boss  the  story  of  Rut- 
meinsyer,"  Sophie  told  her. 

"Can't  Butch  Fanner  let  one  time  go  by 
without  draggin'  in  Rutmeinsyer,  I'd  like  to 
know?"  complained  Ma.  "That  ain't  no  decent 
subject  to  talk  about  to  a  party  like  ourn. 
Where's  little  Butch?  I  suppose  he's  turnin' 
the  house  upside  down?" 

"Little  Butch  stayed  at  Jule's  with  Grand- 
paw  Peebles  and  the  twins,"  Sophie  informed 
her. 

"Well,  that's  one  thing  to  be  thankful  for, 
anyway,"  sighed  Ma. 

Just  then  Jed  burst  into  the  kitchen  with 
his  empty  tray.  "Gotto  have  'nother  cup — 
'nother  cup!"  shouted  Jed,  excitedly,  hypnotized 
by  Sophie  into  a  faithful  if  not  a  willing  waiter. 

"There  ain't  no  more  cups,"  stated  his  mother. 

"Gotto  be  more,"  asserted  Jed,  doggedly. 
"Gimme  somethin',  quick !** 

239 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"Here's  this  old  blue  earthenware  sugar- 
bowl,  it  holds  about  a  cisternful;  but,  land 
knows,  there's  coffee  enough.  But  don't  you 
dast  break  it;  it's  all  I've  got  left  of  Aunt  Pike's 
things." 

Though  prepared  under  the  greatest  stress, 
the  supper  was  a  complete  success.  Nothing 
could  have  been  better  than  Ma's  coffee  and 
fried  cakes,  and  there  were  more  than  enough 
pickles  to  go  around. 

Ma  Flickinger  was  industriously  washing  dishes 
when  Sophie  beckoned  her  to  come  in  with  the 
company. 

"When  I  git  the  dishes  done,"  promised  Ma. 

"No,  come  now,"  insisted  Sophie;  "some 
thing's  going  to  happen." 

And  Ma  hastily  went  in,  fearing,  for  all  of 
Sophie's  reassuring  smile,  that  Billie  had  been 
"sassy"  to  somebody. 

But  what  was  her  astonishment  to  see  Mr. 
Peyton,  Pa's  genial  employer,  standing  in  the 
middle  of  the  room  demanding  silence,  and  when 
it  was  quite  still  he  began: 

"I  found  out  by  accident,  Flickinger,  that 
your  birthday  is  to-day." 

Pa  looked  dumfounded.  "Birthday  nothin'," 
he  blurted  out. 

240 


THE    SOCIAL    WHIRL 

"Tis,  too,"  corrected  his  wife,  who  was 
quicker  to  reckon  up  dates. 

"And  when  I  mentioned  it  to  the  boys  at  the 
factory,"  went  on  Mr.  Peyton,  "they  wanted 
to  give  you  a  party;  so  here  we  are.  And  I've 
got  here  a  little  remembrance  from  the  boys." 
And  in  a  profound  hush,  in  which  the  staring 
eight-day  clock  ticked  with  solemn  unction, 
"From  the  boys,  from  the  boys,"  Mr.  Peyton  un 
wrapped  a  handsome  gold  watch  and  chain,  and 
handed  them  to  Pa  Flickinger.  "And  I  give  you 
this  watch,"  he  continued,  earnestly,  "as  a  little 
token  of  the  good  will  and  affection  of  the  men 
who  work  under  you,  and  of  my  own  appreciation 
of  you  as  the  best  superintendent  I  ever  had — 
faithful  to  your  employer  and  just  to  the  men, 
and—" 

"He  has  no  iavorites — no  inemies— popular 
with  iverybody!"  sang  out  McKenna,  fearing 
that  the  boss  would  not  do  Pa  Flickinger  jus 
tice. 

If  lightning  had  come  straight  down  from 
Pa's  own  attic  and  struck  him  dead,  he  could 
not  have  been  less  able  to  talk. 

"Say  somethin',  Pa,  if  it  ain't  so  nice," 
prompted  Jule,  boldly,  wishing  to  save  the 
credit  of  the  family. 

241 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"It  give  him  a  turn,"  apologized  Ma  to  Mr. 
Peyton;  "he's  flabbergasted,  but  he's  much 
obliged." 

Ma  fairly  glowed  with  pleasure  as  she  circu 
lated,  duty  bound,  now  that  the  supper  was 
over,  among  her  guests.  And  nobody  wanted 
to  go  home,  and  the  jolly  crowd  stayed  late, 
yelling  themselves  hoarse  at  flinch,  and  grow 
ing  more  skilful  every  minute  at  the  intricate 
game  of  tiddlewinks.  And  Pa  took  it  as  a 
personal  affront  when  any  one  even  hinted  that 
it  was  time  to  go. 

But  it  was  not  till  the  guests  were  bidding 
Pa  Flickinger  good-night  that  he  could  find 
words  to  thank  them  for  the  present. 

"I  ought  to  have  said  afore,"  he  began,  "that 
I'm  much  obliged  for  this  gift,  but  the  words 
wa'n't  handy.  But  it's  the  spirit  back  of  the 
gift  that's  makin'  me  feel  the  best,  and  I  hope 
that  I'll  live  long  enough  to  show  every  last  one 
of  you  how  I  appreciate  it.  And  I  ask  you  one 
and  all  to  come  ag'in;  come  and  surprise  me 
every  night  in  the  week,  and  you'll  find  jest  the 
same  welcome." 

"And  if  Mrs.  Flickinger  '11  promise  us  the 
same  supper,  we'll  come,"  cut  in  the  boss.  Then 
there  was  a  noisy,  friendly  leave-taking,  and  the 

242 


Flickinger  family  found  themselves  alone.  And 
the  surprise  party  was  over. 

"I  dunno  when  I  ever  passed  a  pleasanter 
evenin',"  smiled  Ma.  "It  does  folks  good  to 
entertain  occasionally — keeps  you  from  gettin' 
so  woodsy." 

"Pa  acted  woodsy  all  right,  all  right,"  laughed 
his  son  Bill,  "when  he  took  that  watch." 

"Your  Pa  acted  jest  as  any  other  gent  might 
if  he'd  been  handed  out  a  golden  watch  un 
beknownst  to  hisself,"  defended  Ma,  loyally. 

"Bill  'd  'a'  said  a  few  well-chosen  words,  I 
suppose!"  sniffed  Jule. 

"Pa  struck  a  time  when  he  wa'n't  chuck  full 
of  words,  though,"  persisted  Bill. 

"Still,  I  done  it  up  brown  afore  they  went," 
put  in  Pa.  "You  heard  what  I  said,  didn't 
you,  Ma?"  he  inquired,  anxiously. 

"Yes,  I  did;  and  it  was  every  bit  as  good  as 
the  boss'  speech." 

"Did  I  git  out  enough — er — sentiments?" 
asked  Pa. 

"Jest  enough,"  decided  Ma;  "long-winded 
thanks  look  like  you  expected  the  present." 

"Me  a-sportin'  a  golden  watch  and  chain!" 
murmured  Pa,  happily,  to  nobody  in  particular, 

"And  it  tickled  me  to  see  Billie  a-smilin', 
243 


PA    PLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

collar  a-chokin',  and  as  polite  to  everybody  as 
if  he'd  been  fetched  up  to  it,"  related  Ma. 

"I  can  make  a  stab  at  social  doin's  as  well  as 
the  next,"  admitted  Bill,  modestly. 

"And  I  didn't  know  the  hull  family  had  as 
much  manners  as  Jule  showed  to-night,"  ad 
mired  Ma;  "she  kept  the  talk  goin'  among  the 
women  at  first,  when  the  men  all  sneaked  off 
into  t'other  room,  afore  the  hull  crowd  got  to 
playin'  tiddlewinks  and  flinch.  And  I'd  'a'  been 
dead  and  buried  long  afore  this  if  Sophie  hadn't 
'a'  stood  by  me  like  she  did." 

"Sophie's  the  best  there  is,"  praised  Bill. 

"And  Jed  did  first  class,  too,  for  a  greeny  at 
passin'  things.  I  guess  his  schoolin'  ain't  doin' 
him  much  harm,"  remarked  Pa. 

"Who  got  the  old  blue  sugar-bowl,  anyway?" 
asked  Ma,  with  idle  curiosity. 

"  'Pears  like  the  boss  drinked  his  coffee  out'n 
summat  fat  and  bowlish ;  yes,  it  was  out'n  your 
Aunt  Pike's  old  blue  sugar-bowl,"  remembered 
Pa,  not  realizing  the  enormity  of  this  slip  of 
etiquette  on  the  part  of  the  family. 

"The  boss!"  screamed  Ma.  "Jed  Flickinger, 
did  you  dare  to  go  and  give  that  there  sugar- 
bowl  to  Mr.  Peyton  to  drink  his  coffee  out'n? 
I'd  ruther  you'd  'a'  broke  it  into  a  million  pieces! 

244 


THE    SOCIAL   WHIRL 

Why  didn't  you  give  it  to  Pa,  or  to  one  of  our 
own  men  folks?" 

"I  dunno,"  answered  Jed;   "it  come  to  him." 

"The  boss  was  jest  the  one  to  drink  out'n  it," 
conciliated  Pa.  "It  looked  as  if  we  was  true 
blue — trotted  out  our  worst  with  our  best,  and 
let  'em  fall  where  they  would." 

"It  looks  as  if  we  wa'n't  bright!"  lamented 
Ma.  "  And  the  boss  a-askin'  for  that  fried -cake 
receipt  for  his  wife,  who's  in  Florida,  and  Sophie 
a-writin'  it  off  for  him ;  and  him  a  great  fat  man 
a-drinkin'  his  coffee  out'n  that  old  blue  sugar- 
bowl — and  worth  half  a  million — oh,  dear!" 

"  Bein'  a  man,  probably  he  didn't  notice  what 
he  drinked  out  of,"  consoled  Jule. 

"Sure  enough!"  cried  Ma,  brightening;  "meb- 
be  he  didn't.  Men  ain't  never  got  more'n  half 
their  wits  about  'em,  anyway." 

"  And  the  boss  he  ain't  no  cheap  guy  neither," 
spoke  up  Jed,  unexpectedly;  "he  wouldn't  'a' 
thought  nothin'  about  it  if  he  had  noticed  it." 

"That's  the  only  sensible  remark  I  ever  heard 
Jed  make,"  said  Bill,  with  grudging  admiration. 

"Jed  always  was  a  sorter  green  gawk,"  ob 
served  Pa,  with  frank  criticism ;  "  but  mebbe  his 
schoolin's  jigglin'  a  little  of  the  moss  off'n  his 
company  manners." 

17  245 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"Jed  sure  enough  got  caught  in  the  social 
whirl  this  time,"  grinned  Bill. 

"  But  he  made  just  splendid  with  the  fried 
cakes  and  spoons,"  praised  Sophie. 

"  And  the  boys  from  the  factory,  they're  about 
as  intelligent  and  as  decent  a  bunch  of  men  as 
you'll  see  anywhere,"  complimented  Pa. 

"Yes,  they  be,"  agreed  Ma. 
-  "And  now  it's  jest  four  minutes  and  a  half  of 
two  by  my  new  gold  watch.  Everybody  go  home 
that's  goin',  and  the  rest  of  us  hikes  to  bed," 
ordered  Pa  Flickinger,  ostentatiously  winding 
his  watch. 


XII 

OPAL'S    CHANCE 

"  X^vPAL  never  had  no  real  chanct  at  school- 
{        1  in'  till  now,"  said  her  father,  one  Friday 
^-^  evening,  "and  I  want  her  to  git  all  the 
education  she  can." 

Opal  sat  listlessly  studying,  for  her  head  felt 
dull  and  heavy. 

"  But  her  stayin'  out  of  school  afore  wa'n't 
nothin'  that  could  he  helped,  'pears  like,"  de 
clared  Ma  Flickinger;  "her  sister's  babies  had 
to  be  took  care  of.  But  now  Beulah's  gittin' 
bigger,  and  Grandpaw  Peebles  helps  Jule  with 
her  twins,  and  little  Butch  is  old  enough  to  go 
to  school,  so  Opal's  got  more  time.  Besides, 
I've  had  to  keep  her  out  myself  considerable, 
other  years,  not  bein'  over  strong,  and  havin' 
work  enough  for  a  dozen  women.  But  now 
Opal's  got  a  chance  to  go  to  school  reg'lar, 
and  I  want  her  to  go  right  through  and  graduate 
when  other  girls  of  her  age  does." 

247 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"Then  she'll  have  to  hustle,"  broke  in  Pa. 

"And  ain't  she  a-hustlin,"  said  her  mother, 
"  a-takin'  two  grades  at  onct — the  one  she  failed 
in  last  year  and  the  one  ahead?  And  I  want 
Opal  to  graduate  with  a  white  dress,  and  flowers, 
and  presents,  and  —  yes,  white  gloves,  too  —  if 
other  girls  has  'em.  Opal's  never  had  nothin' 
like  other  girls  afore." 

"And  she's  naturally  a  little  backkard,  havin' 
to  stay  out  so  much,"  put  in  her  father;  "but  it 
don't  make  no  difference  if  she  don't  graduate 
till  she's  thirty." 

"It  does,  too,  make  a  difference!"  contra 
dicted  his  wife.  "  Opal  ought  to  graduate  when 
Fernie  Bistle  does — Fernie's  jest  Opal's  age." 

It  had  just  begun  to  dawn  on  Pa  Flickinger 
that  Opal  was  behind  other  children  of  her  age 
at  school.  For  now,  with  better  pay  and  less 
work,  he  had  a  little  leisure  to  notice  his  young 
est  child.  Then,  too,  Jed's  going  to  college  had 
turned  Pa's  attention  toward  education.  But 
for  years,  in  the  brief  hours  that  he  spent  at  home, 
Pa  Flickinger  had  never  noticed  that  Opal  was 
a  drudge.  But  now  that  Jed  was  away  so  much, 
and  Opal  was  the  only  child  left  in  the  family, 
her  father  naturally  thought  more  about  her. 
And  he  became  conscious  that  his  pale,  quiet 

248 


OPAL'S    CHANCE 

little  daughter  had  had  rather  less  than  her 
share  of  the  pleasures  and  the  rights  of  child 
hood.  And  Pa  found  himself  looking  at  Opal 
with  a  father's  natural  solicitude,  and  wishing 
to  make  up  for  the  past  neglect. 

Her  mother,  too,  having  less  to  do  now  and  a 
little  more  money  to  spend,  was  anxious  that 
Opal  should  be  educated.  Perhaps  their  dif 
ferent  surroundings  on  Pine  Street  had  some 
thing  to  do  with  it.  On  Loretta  Avenue,  with 
its  shiftless,  crowded  tenements,  no  one  thought 
much  about  the  future  of  their  children;  but 
in  their  new  neighborhood  the  people  not  only 
educated  the  children,  but  they  took  pride  in 
doing  it. 

Other  years  Opal  had  thought  it  a  bitter  shame 
that  she  should  be  obliged  to  stay  out  so  much, 
but  now  she  often  caught  herself  longing  for  a 
day's  release  when  difficult  lessons  loomed  up 
ahead;  but  it  never  came,  for  nothing  ever  in 
terfered  with  the  weary  cramming  of  the  monot 
onous  weeks. 

"I'd  kinder  like  Opal  to  go  to  a  regular  young 
ladies'  seminary  after  she's  graduated  here," 
said  her  mother.  "Mis'  Bistle's  goin*  to  send 
Fernie.  It's  a  kind  of  finishin'  school." 

"Where  they  don't  teach  nothin'  much  but 
249 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

crochetin'  tidies  and  bowin'  and  scrapin' — not 
for  me,"  disparaged  Pa. 

"Which  shows  how  much  you  know  about 
it,"  returned  Ma.  "Sophie  knows  a  Catholic 
girl  that  went  away  to  one.  They  teach  all 
kinds  of  polite  learnin'  there,  and — manners. 
About  all  the  manners  Opal's  got  she  picked  up 
from  Sophie.  I  always  meant  to  git  at  it  and 
teach  Opal  company  manners,  but  I  never 
seemed  to  git  time.  When  you're  hurryin'  and 
scurryin'  to  make  both  ends  meet,  you  can't 
stop  to  say  thank  you  every  whipstitch.  Be 
sides,  it  always  seemed  kinder  silly  to  me  to 
see  folks  in  the  same  family  a-beggin'  pardons 
every  time  they  happened  to  tumble  over  each 
other;  still,  I  suppose  if  you  git  into  the  habit 
of  it  at  home  that  you  ain't  so  woodsy  abroad. 
Whatever  Jed  Flickinger  does  when  he's  away 
at  school  with  hisself  is  more  than  I  know;  I 
don't  suppose  he  ever  opens  his  head  from  the 
time  he  leaves  home  till  he  gits  back." 

"I  don't  know  about- that,"  disagreed  Pa, 
whose  admiration  and  respect  for  Jed  were  con 
stantly  increasing.  "A  feller  that's  got  enough 
grit  to  go  off  to  a  strange  college  to  educate 
himself  for  a  farmer  ain't  a-goin'  to  lack  for 
words  when  he  needs  'em." 

250 


OPAL'S    CHANCE 

"And  after  Opal's  got  all  the  book-learnin' 
she  can,"  went  on  Ma,  returning  to  her  daughter's 
future,  "I  want  her  to  teach  school.  I  always 
said  that  I'd  been  a  teacher  myself  if  I'd  'a'  had 
a  chanct  at  education.  It's  the  nicest  kind  of 
work  for  a  woman;  everybody  respects  you, 
and  looks  up  to  you,  and  makes  the  world  and 
all  of  you.  You  can  always  associate  with  the 
right  kind  of  folks.  And  if  Opal  learns  enough 
and  has  decent  clothes  and  behaves  herself,  I 
don't  see  why  she  can't  be  jest  as  successful  as 
anybody  else  teachin'  school." 

"If  she  don't  git  married,"  struck  in  Pa,  un 
expectedly. 

"Married!  Whatever  put  that  wild  idee  into 
your  head?  Opal  won't  be  old  enough  to  git 
married  for  years — then  I  dunno  as  I'd  advise 
her  to  do  it.  There's  a  lot  of  things  that  're 
better 'n  gettin'  married;  I'd  rather  she'd  teach 
and  earn  her  own  money  than  to  have  to  ask  a 
husband  for  every  cent.  Opal  's  goin'  to  be  a 
teacher,  and  we'll  give  her  all  the  chanct  we  can, 
and  we'll  never  be  sorry  for  it.  Land,  Pa,  jest 
think  of  it — a  teacher — in  the  Flickinger  family!" 

"Well,  I  dunno,"  hesitated  Pa. 

"Pa,  whatever  makes  you  talk  so  contrary?" 
cried  Ma. 

251 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"Nothin',  only  I  think  the  young  one  herself 
ought  to  have  summat  to  say  about  it,"  main 
tained  Pa. 

"Oh,  Opal — she'll  do  whatever  we  want  her 
to,"  answered  Ma,  easily. 

This  conversation  was  carried  on  without  con 
straint  before  Opal,  who  was  supposed  to  be 
deep  in  her  book;  but  she  heard  it  all,  and  it 
made  her  doubly  miserable;  for  the  future 
seemed  to  stretch  out  endlessly  before  her, 
filled  with  difficult  and  impossible  things  to 
learn. 

"Did  you  git  good  marks  this  week,  Opal?" 
inquired  her  mother. 

"  Not  very ;  I  get  the  work  in  the  two  grades 
mixed  up  so." 

"Nobody's  fault  but  your  own,"  snapped  Ma 
Flickinger.  "Put  your  mind  on  it  more." 

"I  do  try  to,  but  I  get  so  tired  of  doin'  'em 
both,"  sighed  Opal. 

"Well,  mebbe  you  do,"  allowed  her  mother, 
"  but  keep  right  on  studyin'.  Even  if  your  head  is 
all  muddled  up  at  night,  it'll  clear  in  the  mornin', 
and  you'll  probably  remember  somethin'  you'd 
learned,  anyway,"  she  encouraged. 

"If  I  was  takin'  just  one  grade — "  began 
Opal. 

252 


OPAL'S    CHANCE 

"A  great  girl  like  you,  almost  a  young  lady, 
ought  to  have  gumption  enough  to  take  two 
grades — or  three,  for  that  matter ;  besides,  I  don't 
want  Fernie  Bistle's  mother  a-crowin'  over  me 
when  Fernie  graduates  a  hull  year  ahead  of 
you." 

"  But  it's  so  hard—" 

"Where's  your  pride?  Do  you  want  to  drag 
along  in  the  grades  till  you're  old  enough  to 
die?" 

"  But  I  stayed  out  so  much  other  years  that  I 
never  learned  anything  right,"  complained  Opal. 

"I  should  'a'  thought  something  'd  'a'  stuck 
by  you,"  returned  her  mother. 

"I  try  awful  hard  to  remember  it  all,"  Opal 
claimed. 

"Ma,  ain't  Opal  lookin'  a  little  peakeder'n 
usual?"  asked  her  father. 

"Land,  no!  She  always  did  look  like  a  dyin' 
ghost;  but  she's  strong  enough.  When  was 
Opal  ever  sick?" 

"She  don't  look  stubbed,  anyhow,"  declared 
her  father. 

"Our  class  party's  to-night,"  put  in  Opal, 
timidly. 

"Well,  what  of  that?  You  know  you  can't 
go;  you  gotta  study,"  reminded  her  mother. 

253 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"But  to-night's  Friday  night — "  began  Opal. 

"You  have  to  study  every  night  to  keep  up." 

"  But  they  don't  have  'em  but  once  a  month." 

"Jest  onct  too  often,"  maintained  her  mother. 
"Stop  teasin'." 

"  I  could  come  home  early." 

"Shut  up!"  commanded  Ma,  angrily.  "Opal, 
you're  gettin'  spunkier'n  tunket!" 

"  But  I  never  go  nowheres,"  said  Opal,  almost 
in  tears. 

"And,  Ma,  you  know  it  makes  a  kid  feel  as 
dull  as  a  last  year's  bird's -nest  left  bloomin' 
alone  never  to  go  nowheres,"  stated  her  father, 
emphatically. 

"But  them  parties  takes  the  young  ones' 
minds  off'n  their  lessons,"  answered  Ma.  "  Opal, 
take  a  holt  of  that  there  joggerfy  and  go  to 
boundin*  Africky  —  you  said  that  was  your 
lesson." 

Opal  obediently  bounded  Africa,  and  more 
than  one  crooked  black  line  swelled  moistly  into 
a  lake-like  mirage  through  her  dismal  tears. 
Then  she  took  her  arithmetic  and  patiently 
tried  to  memorize  a  long,  complicated  rule,  of 
whose  practical  application  she  had  not  even 
the  most  hazy  conception.  At  half-past  eight 
Ma  Flickinger  sent  her  to  bed. 

254 


OPAL'S    CHANCE 

The  next  day,  when  her  father  came  home 
from  work,  Opal  was  not  at  the  supper-table. 
"Where's  Opal?"  he  casually  inquired. 

"  Opal's  sick  abed,"  informed  his  wife.  "  She's 
been  tossin'  and  turnin'  all  day,  worryin*  about 
her  lessons.  Where  you  goin'  ?" 

"After  the  doctor,"  answered  Pa,  in  a  daze, 
his  hand  on  the  door. 

"Set  down  and  eat.  I've  had  the  doctor. 
She's  got  a  fever." 

"That  young  one's  been  a-studyin'  too  much," 
said  Pa,  grimly.  "  You  can  see  now  what  comes 
of  your  everlastin'  stuffin'  of  books." 

"  It  wa'n't  the  study  at  all,"  flared  Ma ;  "  it  was 
somethin'  she  et.  She  wa'n't  never  sick  afore." 

But  Opal,  worn  out  by  overstudy,  lay  with 
a  burning  fever ;  and  her  starved  spirit,  that  had 
nearly  always  been  denied  the  natural  pleasures 
of  childhood,  fought  for  life  in  her  frail  body, 
unconscious  of  all  that  was  going  on  about  her. 
The  doctor  said  that  he  should  have  been  con 
sulted  sooner. 

And  the  whole  house  lay  as  silent  and  as  order 
ly  as  if  death  were  already  there.  The  small 
living-room,  that  had  been  wont  to  resound 
with  high-pitched,  uncouth  voices,  the  clumping 
tread  of  heavy  boots,  and  the  clack  of  hard  heels, 

255 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

was  almost  echoless  now.  Where  every-day  life 
had  found  the  Flickinger  family  wordy,  clamor 
ous,  quick  to  take  offence,  and  almost  brutal  in 
exposing  one  another's  weaknesses,  this  unex 
pected  affliction  found  them  harmonious  and 
thoughtful  for  one  another. 

Jed  had  been  summoned  from  school,  and  on 
a  calm,  fair  Sunday,  when  the  whole  town  lay 
hushed  in  Sabbath  stillness,  the  Flickinger  family 
assembled  in  Ma's  little  sitting-room  to  wait 
and  watch  near  the  sick  girl ;  for  it  was  thought 
that  Opal  could  not  live  through  the  day. 

Billie  Flickinger  was  as  gentle  with  every 
body  as  if  he  had  been  entirely  made  over.  For 
once  he  felt  no  desire  to  domineer,  but  was  mak 
ing  a  fierce  effort  to  control  himself.  And 
Sophie,  though  a  Flickinger  only  by  marriage, 
was  one  with  them  in  sorrow. 

"  It  makes  me  crazy  to  think  how  strong  I  am, 
and  what  I've  gone  through,  and  yet  not  able 
to  lift  a  hand  for  little  Opal,"  groaned  William 
Fanner  to  Ma. 

"I  know,  William,  I  know,"  assented  Ma, 
quickly;  "but  she  don't  need  nothin'  done  for 
her  that  I  can't  do.  She'll  pull  through." 

"She  ought  to  be  let  to  live,"  said  Fanner,  re 
ferring  to  Divine  Providence. 

256 


OPAL'S   CHANCE 

Even  Butch  was  awed  for  once  into  a  tearful 
silence  when  his  mother  took  him  in  to  see  his 
pale,  unconscious  little  aunt,  and  whispered  to 
him  to  be  good,  for  that  was  the  last  time  he 
would  see  Opal  before  she  went  to  heaven. 

Grandpaw  Peebles,  who  was  tending  the  twins, 
had  prevailed  upon  them  to  play  quietly  and 
without  quarrelling  with  their  worsted  dogs; 
and  meek  little  Milo,  never  very  lively  even  on 
a  holiday,  was  to-day  more  effaced  than  ever, 
retiring  into  almost  complete  obscuration  in  a 
shadowy  corner  behind  the  stove,  where,  imag 
ining  that  nobody  saw  him,  he  freely  shed  tears. 

Elvie  and  Mort  were  there  with  Beulah;  and 
while  Elvie  sobbed,  helplessly  all  the  time,  Mort 
held  baby  Beulah  in  his  arms,  as  if  death  were 
contagious  and  he  did  not  know  which  child 
would  go  first. 

This  softened  home  atmosphere  was  not  in 
any  way  disturbed  till  Jule,  strenuous,  emotional, 
bold-spoken  always,  after  coming  from  her  sick 
sister's  room,  began  to  reproach  them. 

"You  act  as  if  Opal  wa'n't  dyin',"  accused 
Jule,  bitterly. 

"Hush,  Jule,"  whispered  Ma;  "don't  disturb 
her." 

"She's  too  fur  gone  for  anything  to  disturb 
257 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

her  now,"  retorted  Jule;  "but  you  all  act  so 
wooden  about  it — and  it  always  was  that  way 
where  Opal  was  concerned.  I  see  now  that  none 
of  us  never  had  no  real  affection  for  her.  Opal 
always  lived  on  the  aidge  of  things,  and  she 
never  went  nowhere — never  played  like  other 
children — never  had  no  real  schoolin'  till  this 
year;  and  now,  jest  as  she's  growin'  up  into  a 
young  lady  as  fast  as  she  can,  you  crowd  so  much 
book-learnin'  onto  her  that  you've  killed  her. 

"And  her  brothers,  Bill  and  Jed,  scarcely  ever 
had  a  decent  word  for  her,"  continued  Jule; 
"  and  Pa,  here,  he  never  acted  like  Opal  was  his 
little  girl.  And  what  did  us  sisters  ever  do  for 
her? — nothin'.  And  onct  when  she  ast  me  to 
sew  a  doll's  dress  for  her,  and  I  wouldn't,  nor 
Elvie  wouldn't,  nor  Mandy  wouldn't,  and  Ma 
heard  her  a-teasin'  us,  and  she  up  and  slap 
ped  Opal;  and  then  we  all  laughed  at  her  and 
poked  fun  at  her,  and  said  she  was  too  big 
to  play  with  dolls.  And  she  wa'n't  more'n  a 
baby.  Poor  little  Opal!"  And  Jule,  drawing 
her  old  golf -cape  over  her  face,  sobbed  noisily. 

Nobody  answered  her — what  was  the  use? 
She  had  only  put  into  words  what  the  others  felt 
to  be  true. 

But  finally  Ma  Flickinger  broke  into  subdued 
258 


OPAL'S    CHANCE 

but  impassioned  speech:  "Now,  I  can't  stand 
this  any  longer.  If  you  folks  all  set  around  here 
a  minute  more  I'll  go  crazy!  What  're  you  all 
cryin'  and  takin'  on  like  a  funeral  for?  Opal 
ain't  dead  yit.  And  she's  goin'  to  git  well,  do 
you  hear?  Every  last  one  of  you  go  home — 
and  stay  home.  I  ain't  mad  at  nobody,  but  I 
mean  what  I  say." 

"Best  mind  your  Ma,"  supplemented  Pa, 
speaking  for  the  first  time  in  hours. 

Without  a  word  of  protest,  her  married  chil 
dren  filed  silently  out,  leaving  Ma  and  Pa  and 
Jed  alone  with  Opal. 

And  while  the  child  lay  hovering  between  life 
and  death  her  mother  never  once  gave  up  hope, 
but  said,  over  and  over  again,  "  Opal  '11  have  her 
chanct  yit,"  though  her  father  was  stolidly  re 
signed  and  waited  drearily  for  the  end. 

And,  as  if  held  by  her  mother's  strong  will 
from  the  unknown,  Opal,  after  slipping  so  far 
away  from  them,  began  slowly  to  mend,  and 
day  by  day  she  crept  a  little  nearer  life.  And 
as  her  strength  returned  her  mother's  old  am 
bition  for  her  flamed  anew,  and  Ma  Flickinger 
began  planning  how  soon  Opal  could  go  back  to 
school,  bent  more  than  ever  on  the  child's  having 
her  chance. 

259 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"And  how  is  Opal  a-gettin'  along?"  Jule 
wanted  to  know,  one  day. 

"She's  a-eatin'  everything  she  can  lay  hands 
on,  as  folks  generally  does  after  a  fever,  and 
she's  a-goin'  back  to  school  ag'in  next  week," 
informed  her  mother,  happily. 

"I  hope  Opal  ain't  .a-goin'  to  begin  stuffin' 
too  much  book-learnin'  ag'in,"  remarked  Jule. 

"  How  can  a  feller  git  too  much  book-learnin'  ?" 
demanded  Ma  Flickinger,  sharply. 

"Anybody  can  git  more'n  they  can  take  care 
of,"  affirmed  Jule,  "and  a  growin'  young  one's 
brain  ain't  as  strong  as  a  grown-up's.  Grand- 
paw  Peebles  says  the  brain's  sorter  like  a 
jug." 

"Nonsense!"  retorted  Ma. 

"And  Grandpaw  says  you  can  fill  that  there 
little  jug  so  full  and  no  fuller,  and  if  you  keep 
a-pourin'  the  rest  '11  run  over  and  git  spilt." 

"I  dunno,"  objected  Ma,  not  taking  kindly 
to  the  pedagogical  principles  of  Grandpaw 
Peebles;  "it's  always  seemed  to  me  that  you 
couldn't  git  too  much  book-education." 

"  But  two  grades  is  too  much  for  Opal ;  it  give 
her  the  fever  afore,"  reminded  Jule. 

"She  can  jest  as  well  put  away  two  grades 
while  she's  puttin'  away  one,"  asserted  her 

260 


OPAL'S    CHANCE 

mother,    stubbornly.     "I   want   Opal   to   grad 
uate  on  time." 

"Graduatin's  pretty  doin's,  but  you'll  have 
yourself  to  blame  if  Opal  gits  sick  and  dies." 
And  with  this  warning  Jule  went  home. 

But  when  the  morning  came  for  Opal  to  re 
turn  to  school  her  mother;  said,  with  unwonted 
kindness:  "You  needn't  study  but  one  grade, 
Opal;  take  your  old  one.  I  dunno  but  two 
grades  is  too  much  for  a  growin'  girl  like  you; 
Jule  says  it  is.  I  don't  want  you  gittin'  sick  on 
us  ag'in." 

"  But  I  won't  graduate  on  time,  then,"  said 
Opal,  though  there  was  no  regret  in  her  voice. 

"I  dunno  as  keepin'  up  with  Fernie  Bistle's 
any  more  account  than  keepin'  your  health," 
observed  her  mother.  "I  dunno  but  I've  been 
a-drivin'  you  too  hard;  but  I  never  had  no 
education  myself,  and  it's  kinder  seemed  to  me 
that  you  couldn't  git  too  much." 

"  How's  Opal  feelin'  already  ?"  inquired  Sophie, 
one  evening. 

"Opal's  a-gainin'  in  weight;  she's  growin'  like 
a  weed;  her  dinner-pail's  empty  every  night; 
and  she  giggles  more'n  's  pretty  for  a  little  girl." 

"There  ain't  nothin'  I  like  better'n  to  hear  a 
kid  laugh,"  observed  Opal's  father. 
*»  261 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"If  you  happen  to  feel  good-natured  your 
self,"  qualified  Ma  Flickinger. 

"And  Opal's  teacher  says  she's  a-doin'  fine," 
smiled  Ma.  "  She's  gettin'  one  hundred  continual 
in  her  joggerfy,  and  her  card's  pretty  nigh  all 
A's;  and  her  water-colors — well,  say!  Pa's  took 
one  little  fruit  scene,  consistin'  of  two  onions  and 
a  winter  radish,  down  to  be  framed." 

'  'Tain't  bad  for  a  kid's  smearin',"  allowed 
Pa,  apologetically. 

"Ain't  there  a  school  party  to-night?"  asked 
Jed,  who  was  home  on  a  short  vacation. 

"Yes,"  answered  Opal,  quickly,  "and  Ma  said 
maybe  I  could  go." 

Nobody  knew  how  Opal  longed  to  go  to  the 
school  party  that  night;  ,and  she  trembled  with 
excitement,  hoping  that  her  mother  would  re 
lent  at  the  last  minute,  for  Ma  Flickinger  had 
been  strangely  kind  since  her  illness.  And  Opal 
especially  wanted  to  go  to  that  party,  for  Sefton 
Woods,  home  from  school  for  a  few  days,  was 
expected  to  be  there.  And  Seftie,  as  he  was 
familiarly  called,  was  the  Prince  Charming  of 
Opal's  small  world. 

There  was  a  timid  knock  on  the  street  door, 
and  Ma  Flickinger  hurried  to  open  it.  On  the 
threshold  stood  a  boy  of  about  Opal's  age,  but 
262 


OPAL'S    CHANCE 

considerably  shorter,  with  a  very  clean,  fat, 
freckled  face,  showing  above  a  very  high  white 
collar.  He  was  trussed  in  his  best  clothes,  but 
his  long  overcoat  and  knee-pants  made  him  look 
suspiciously  like  a  Brownie. 

"Is  Miss  Flickinger  going  to  the  party?"  in 
quired  the  small,  freckled-faced  boy  in  a  smaller, 
shaky  voice. 

"Me!"  cried  Ma,  in  astonishment.  "Land, 
no!  Whatever  put  that  into  your  head?" 

"  I  meant  Miss  Opal  Flickinger,"  the  small  boy 
managed  to  say. 

"No,  she  ain't,"  snapped  Ma;  and  slammed 
the  door  in  the  boy's  face,  remarking,  grimly, 
"That  settles  him." 

"What  kid's  that?"  Pa  wanted  to  know. 

"Willie  Briggs,"  communicated  Ma,  in  a  hard, 
rasping,  disagreeable  voice,  as  if  Willie  were  a 
dangerous  character. 

"What  'd  he  want?"  asked  Pa. 

' '  I  suppose  he  wanted  to  take  Opal  to  the  party. ' ' 

"No  particular  harm  in  that,"  returned  Pa. 

"But  to  have  a  little  feller  as  bold  as  brass 
and  no  bigger 'n  a  pint  jug  inquire  for  'Mis' 
Flickinger' --it  give  me  a  turn.  How  long's 
this  thing  been  goin'  on  between  you  and  that 
freckle-face?"  demanded  Opal's  mother. 

263 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"Fernie  Bistle  said  he  should  come  for  me; 
I  didn't  have  anything  to  do  about  it,"  protested 
Opal,  who  had  a  strong  antipathy  to  Willie 
Briggs. 

"Aw,  Opal's  tickled  to  death,"  teased  Jed. 
"  Willie  Briggs  has  been  sweet  on  Opal  ever  since 
the  first  grade.  He  gives  her  candy  hearts, 
and  lead-pencils,  and — " 

"What!"  cried  Ma,  amazed  at  this  awful 
state  of  affairs.  "Are  you  as  thick  as  all  that 
with  Willie  Briggs?  Let  that  be  your  last 
beau." 

"But  Willie  Briggs  is  a  nice  little  boy,"  said 
Sophie. 

"Sure,  he's  a  Sunday-school  lad,"  supple 
mented  Pa. 

"Cradle  roll?"     Ma  spoke  sarcastically. 

"I  dunno  how  he's  hooked  up  as  to  classes, 
but  he's  a  pious  little  josy,"  testified  Pa. 

"  He  ain't  no  worse  for  that,"  allowed  Ma. 

"  I  think  it  would  be  nice  if  Opal  should  go  to 
the  party,"  said  Sophie. 

"Letter  go,  Ma,"  recommended  Jed,  whose 
absence  from  home  had,  unaccountably  to  him 
self,  softened  him  toward  the  whole  family. 

"I've  got  most  of  my  lessons  for  Monday," 
put  in  Opal. 

264 


OPAL'S    CHANCE 

"But  it  ain't  so  much  the  lessons,  since  you 
only  take  one  grade;  but  you've  been  sick,  and 
you'd  better  be  careful;  besides,  it  don't  look 
pretty  for  a  little  girl  like  you  to  have  a  beau." 

"But  you  don't  learn  how  to  act  stylish  if 
you  don't  go  into  society  none,"  claimed  Sophie. 
"And  she  don't  need  to  go  with  beaus.  Let 
Jeddie  take  her  over." 

Opal  looked  appealingly  at  her  mother. 

"I  suppose  not  goin'  with  Willie  Briggs  '11 
spile  your  evenin';  but  if  you've  got  to  go,  I'd 
ruther  you  went  with  Jed.  What  say,  Pa?" 

"Well,  as  her  teacher's  goin'  and  as  she's  been 
invited  with  the  rest,"  argued  her  father,  "I'd 
a  leetle  ruther  she'd  go/* 

"A  body  with  an  invite  ought  to  go  if  it's  to 
a  decent  place,  I  suppose,"  relented  Ma;  "but 
remember,  Opal,  no  beaus  in  this.  I  dunno, 
either;  mebbe  you'd  better  not  go." 

But  Sophie  had  already  hurried  Opal  up 
stairs  to  get  ready;  and  with  skilful  dexterity 
she  did  her  little  sister-in-law's  hair  in  a  new 
way,  rolling  it  high  on  her  head,  and  helped  her 
into  her  best  blue  cashmere  dress,  which,  being 
long  enough,  made  Opal  look  almost  like  a 
young  lady. 

And  Opal  scarcely  knew  herself  in  the  glass, 
265 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

she  looked  so  pretty  and  so  grown-up;  and  she 
wondered  if  Seftie  Woods  would  choose  her  in 
any  of  the  games. 

"Be  careful  of  your  clothes,"  cautioned  Ma 
Flickinger,  when  Opal  came  down-stairs.  "Say 
'yes'm'  and  'no'm'  and  'thank  you,  ma'am.' 
Don't  spill  nothin'  that's  passed,  and  come  home 
early." 

Jed  and  Opal  had  scarcely  gone  a  block  when 
Willie  Briggs,  who  must  have  been  lurking  in 
the  neighborhood — if  so  disreputable  a  word 
could  be  applied  to  so  correct  an  urchin — came 
bobbing  around  the  corner,  and  politely  said: 

"I'll  escort  Miss  Opal  the  rest  of  the  way  to 
the  party,  Jed." 

"  Aw,  you  will,  will  you  ?"  grunted  Jed.  "  Then 
do  it."  And  he  gladly  went  home. 

Opal,  mutely  protesting  against  the  unwel 
come  presence  of  the  ubiquitous  Willie,  walked 
uncomfortably  on;  she  almost  wished  now  that 
she  had  listened  to  her  mother  and  given  up 
going  to  the  party. 

But  this  was  nothing  to  her  distress  when, 
tearing  down  the  street,  came  her  little  nephew 
Butch,  who,  instantly  recognizing  her  and  Willie 
Briggs,  ran  dancing  about  them,  crying  shrilly 
to  the  other  children  that  were  on  the  street : 

266 


OPAL'S    CHANCE 

"Aw,  lookie!     Opal's  gotta  beau!" 

Now  Willie  Briggs  was  not  only  a  pacific  lit 
tle  lad,  but  he  moved  in  a  high  moral  atmos 
phere  of  his  own,  superinduced  by  an  unbroken 
series  of  Sunday-school  cards,  whose  pious  pre 
cepts  he  had  absorbed  into  his  young  system. 
And  while  Willie  could  not  feel  complimented 
by  Butch's  company,  he  heroically  gulped  down 
his  displeasure,  and,  scripturally  speaking,  turned 
the  other  cheek.  Also,  he  felt  it  his  duty  to  be 
a  friend  to  Butch. 

"Say,  Clarence,  can't  you  let  up?"  he  pe 
titioned,  weakly.  "This  kind  of  a  thing  isn't 
pleasant  for  Opal."  For  Willie  knew  that 
Butch's  real  name  was  Clarence,  and  he  was 
one  of  those  punctilious  souls  that  always  call 
a  person  by  his  right  name ;  for  himself,  he  pre 
ferred  to  be  known  as  William. 

"Aw,  Opal's  tickled  to  death.  Opal's  gotta 
feller,"  persisted  Butch. 

"Got  your  lessons  for  Monday,  Clarence?" 
inquired  Willie,  in  a  friendly  tone,  having  made 
up  his  mind  that  if  Butch  was  bound  to  accom 
pany  them  he  should  go  in  peace. 

"Lessons  nothin',"  sneered  Butch.  "Aw, 
lookie,  kids;  Opal's  growed  up  and  gotta  fel 
ler." 

267 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"I'll  tell  your  father  on  you  if  you  say  an 
other  word,"  threatened  Opal,  indignantly.. 

"Aw,  tell  him!  Opal's  gotta—"  But  Butch 
never  finished  his  sentence,  for  a  young  man 
who  had  come  up  unnoticed  behind  them  caught 
the  little  tormentor  quickly  by  the  collar,  turned 
him  roughly  around,  and  advised  him  to  clear 
out;  Butch,  scared  and  blubbering,  vanished. 

And  Sefton  Woods,  tall,  careless,  towering  far 
above  Willie  Briggs,  stalked  past  them,  and 
sang  out:  "Hello,  Briggs!"  and  lifted  his  hat 
to  Opal.  Then  she  felt  more  miserable  than 
ever,  and  the  kindly  twilight  hid  her  tears  as 
she  walked,  mutely  protesting,  by  the  side  of  her 
self-satisfied  little  escort. 

But  at  the  party  she  resolutely  detached  her 
self  from  Willie.  And  the  bright  lights  and  the 
brisk  games  with  her  schoolmates  had  their 
effect  on  her,  and  she  was  soon  having  a  good 
time,  clouded  only  by  the  fear  that  she  would 
have  to  eat  supper  with  Willie  Briggs. 

And,  as  if  some  good  fairy  of  unhappy  and 
neglected  children  had  been  at  work  in  Opal's 
behalf,  when  supper-time  came,  Seftie  Woods, 
the  most  popular  boy  at  the  party,  broke  away 
from  Fernie  Bistle,  who,  gorgeous  in  an  accor 
dion-plaited  red  silk  skirt  and  a  fuzzy  pom- 

268 


OPAL'S    CHANCE 

padour,  had  kept  him  an  unwilling  captive  some 
time,  and  walked  over  to  Opal  and  asked  her 
to  eat  supper  with  him.  Nothing  more  was 
needed  to  crown  Opal's  happiness,  and  the  re 
mainder  of  the  evening  passed  like  a  fairy  tale, 
and  Opal  was  the  chosen  princess. 

"Does  Briggs  think  he's  going  to  take  you 
home?"  asked  Seftie  Woods,  at  the  close  of  the 
party. 

"No!"  replied  Opal,  indignantly. 

"But  he  brought  you,  you  know,"  reminded 
the  boy. 

"  But  I  didn't  want  him  to.  I  can't  bear  him!" 
said  Opal,  with  spirit. 

"  No  harm  in  Briggs,"  allowed  Seftie,  gracious 
ly,  when  he  was  going  home  with  Opal. 

"Willie  is  a  nice  little  boy,"  agreed  Opal,  who 
could  now  afford  to  be  generous. 

"He's  got  a  thousand  Sunday-school  cards 
saved  in  a  shoe-box,"  contributed  Seftie.  Then 
they  laughed. 

As  they  reached  Opal's  home,  Fernie  Bistle 
passed  with  another  girl,  and  called  out,  "  I 
suppose  Opal's  havin'  the  time  of  her  life." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  answered  Sefton  Woods, 
serenely.  And  Opal,  being  human,  enjoyed  his 
remark. 

269 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"Who  was  that  sayin'  good-night  to  you  out 
there?"  questioned  her  mother,  suspiciously, 
when  Opal  came  in. 

"Seftie  Woods,"  answered  Opal,  obediently. 

"And  he  happened  to  come  along  with  you 
and  the  other  girls,  did  he?"  asked  Ma. 

"The  other  girls  wasn't  with  us." 

Pa  Flickinger  and  Jed,  who  were  playing 
checkers,  looked  up  and  laughed. 

"Now,  what's  the  matter?"  demanded  Ma. 

"Opal's  gotta  'nother  beau!"  shouted  Jed. 

"A  beau!"  exclaimed  Ma.  "Do  you  mean  to 
say,  Opal  Flickinger,  that  that  great  lummox, 
Seftie  Woods,  come  home  with  you  on  purpose  ? 
Pa,  stop  your  laughin';  you  ought  to  be  wor 
ried;  here's  Opal  havin'  twobeausinoneevenin'." 

"  It's  only  a  play  party,"  returned  Opal's  father, 
indulgently.  "  And  Woods  is  a  nice-lookin'  chap. ' ' 

"And  he's  just  as  decent  as  he  looks,"  de 
clared  Jed;  for  Sefton  Woods  was  his  hero  as 
well  as  Opal's. 

"I  always  thought  Opal  was  goin'  to  be  a 
kinder  humbly,  scraggy  little  thing,"  observed 
her  father,  critically;  "but  here  she's  growed 
up  in  a  single  night  into  a  reg'lar  young  lady, 
prettier'n  tunket." 

"Pa,  how  you  talk!"  reproved  his  wife.  "I 
270 


OPAL'S    CHANCE 

never  did  believe  in  lettin'  a  young  one  know 
when  they  was  good-lookin'.  And  if  Opal's 
got  to  have  a  beau,"  added  her  mother,  bowing 
to  the  inevitable,  "  I  dunno  but  I'd  ruther  it  'd  be 
a  well-favored  chap  like  Seftie  Woods — though 
probably  it  won't  occur  ag'in." 

"Yes,  it  will,  too;  he's  comin  home  next 
month  a-purpose  to  take  me  to  the  school  party," 
burst  out  Opal,  unable  any  longer  to  keep  the 
wonderful  fact  to  herself. 

"If  he  don't  forgit  all  about  it.  Now,  Jed 
and  Opal,  git  to  bed,"  Ma  commanded.  "  Land ! 
Look  what  hours  you  children  keep !  Nigh  onto 
'leven!" 

"Jest  lemme  stay  up  till  I  beat  Pa  one  more 
game  of  checkers,"  pleaded  Jed. 

' '  You  mean  till  your  Pa  beats  you  one  more 
game,"  corrected  his  father. 

"You  heard  what  I  said,"  reminded  Ma, 
grabbing  the  checker-board  and  sweeping  the 
checkers  into  her  apron. 

When  Jed  and  Opal  had  gone  up-stairs,  Pa 
said,  "It  does  me  good  to  see  that  there  kid 
enjoyin'  herself." 

"Me,  too,"  responded  Ma  Flickinger.  "And 
Opal's  gettin'  her  chanct,  after  all,  if  it  ain't 
quite  as  I  planned." 

271 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

"Opal's  chanct  ain't  for  to  make  a  bloomin' 
bookworm  out'n  herself,"  declared  Pa  Flickinger, 
"though  we  want  her  to  git  all  the  education 
she  otherwise  can;  but  it's  to  grow  up  natural, 
and  happy,  and — stubbed." 

"Land,  Pa!  hadn't  we  ought  to  be  thankful 
that  Opal's  here  at  all?" 

"Yes,  we  had,"  returned  Pa;  "but  it's  her 
bein'  so  stubbed  and  red-cheeked  that  gits  me," 
he  exulted. 

"And  to  think  that  everything's  come  out  all 
right,  after  all!  Why,  I  used  to  think,"  said  Ma, 
"that  I  had  the  worst  burdens  of  anybody  to 
carry — not  that  I  ever  had  anything  really  big, 
like  a  drunken  husband — or  death — or  much 
sickness — or  young  ones  goin'  crooked;  but  I 
was  all  fagged  out  with  hard  work  and  tryin' 
to  keep  soul  and  body  together;  no  thin'  much 
to  worry  about,  but  a  million  little  things  rolled 
up  till  the  burden  was  pretty  nigh  more'n  I 
could  carry." 

"But  I  dunno  but  I  always  did  the  best  I 
could,"  reminded  Pa,  with  a  sigh. 

"Of  course  you  did  the  best  you  could,  Pa; 
and  if  ever  there's  a  unsung  Christian,  you're 
one.  But  some  way  life  seemed  to  git  ahead  of 
us;  we  couldn't  seem  to  keep  up  with  the  pro- 

272 


OPAL'S    CHANCE 

cession  without  pretty  nigh  killin'  ourselves  at 
work." 

"Well,  I've  got  a  better  job  now,"  put  in  Pa, 
complacently. 

"And  that  makes  it  a  lot  easier,"  went  on  Ma. 
"Why,  I  even  have  time  now  to  be  sorry  for 
other  folks  that's  havin'  a  hard  time.  Yet  I 
dunno  as  I'd  'a'  knowed  how  to  sympathize  wjgja. 
'em  if  I  hadn't  had  such  a  hard  pull  myself. 
And  the  funny  part  of  it  is,  I  wouldn't  have  my 
life  different  if  I  could ;  it  was  all  meant  for  me. 
And  no  matter  how  heavy  it  was,  it  was  my 
burden,  fitted  for  my  shoulders;  and  I'm  thank 
ful  that,  however  much  I  grunted,  I  carried  it 
through  to  better  times.  I  never  did  lay  it 
down  a  minute — no,  nor  wanted  to.  But  I  used 
to  pray  for  strength  to  keep  a-goin'  till  the 
young  ones  was  growed  up  and  didn't  need  me. 

"But,  land!  when  things  got  about  as  bad  as 
they  could,  there  come  a  gradual  change  for 
the  better,  and  things  brightened  up  a  little; 
but  at  first  I  was  stubborn  and  wouldn't  believe 
it;  but  at  last  I  jest  had  to.  And  I  found  out 
that  life  speaks  to  you  through  good  times  and 
peace  and  joy,  jest  as  much  as  it  does  through 
poverty  and  care  and  trouble.  And  sometimes 
it  seems  when  you've  learned  one  lesson  you're 

273 


PA    FLICKINGER'S    FOLKS 

hustled  on  to  another;  so  you  don't  never  want 
to  doubt  the  joy,  even  if  you  do  know  the 
sorrow." 

"And  here  we  are  a-ownin'  our  own  home, 
with  a  garden  and  a  neat  little  house,  and  the 
instalments  pretty  nigh  paid.  Oh,  I  tell  you, 
Ma,  that  makes -a  feller  feel  good!" 
•'Don't  it!"  agreed  Ma.  "And  other  good 
things  have  happened  to  us  besides  gettin'  a 
home.  There  come  Sophie  a-takin'  Billie  off'n 
my  hands  and  a-bein'  as  good  as  gold  to  us  all; 
and  William  Fanner  proved  hisself  to  be  a  man, 
even  if  he  was  a  failure ;  and  Grandpaw  Peebles, 
a  pleasant-spoken  old  gent  as  ever  lived — look 
what  he's  doin'  for  Jule's  twinses!" 

"Providence  ain't  never  give  a  chap  up  yit 
that  keeps  a-peggin'  along  tryin'  to  do  his  best, 
I've  noticed,"  added  Pa. 


THE    END 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FAC  LITY 


Mill  Illl  Mill  HIM  Mill  INI  HIM  III"  "HI  'II"  i'111 ""  "" 

A     000  924  083     9 

I 


